Letters From Home
by bloodwrites
Summary: Post season-5 finale, correspondence and a burgeoning relationship between Booth and Brennan. SPOILERS for season 5 up to finale, but no season 6 spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

_I know you guys haven't heard from me in a while, and Murder in the Marriage is just kind of dangling out there, but I wrote this over the summer in between RL writerly pursuits, and figured since it's finished, I might as well post it here. I actually am back to working on MitM, and hope to have another chapter posted soon. In the meantime, if you are interested in my day job writing, I'd love it if you'd check out my website, at www dot doggedwriter dot com. If you like what you see, consider friending me on Facebook or following me on Twitter or, better yet, subscribing to my blog. Thanks, and hope you enjoy Letters From Home!_

* * *

In his first letter to Brennan, Booth sent approximately one gram of sand in the envelope. She wasn't certain what to do with it – if she were Hodgins, sand would have made much more sense. As it was, she carefully funneled the sand from the envelope into a specimen jar and set it on a box beside her cot. His letter was brief. Brennan read it the first time late in the night, several hours after it had arrived, while her tent-mates – Daisy and another graduate student, a young woman named Trista from New Zealand – slept.

_Hey Bones,_

_I know emails the way to go in the 21st century and all, but right now we're out of range in the sticks for a few days. I was thinking about you tonight, though, and I know it's been a couple months since the last time we talked, so… I figured now was as good a time as any. _

_How are you? It's hotter than deep-fried hell here, but other than that things are going okay. One war's not so different from any other, it turns out – I get up, do my job, sit around and wait for the days to end. Could be worse, I guess._

_Anyway, sorry I haven't checked in sooner. It seems like I have all these things to say to you and all these stories I want to tell, but then the second my pen hits the paper, all I can come up with is I miss you. Which, all things considered, doesn't really make for much of a letter._

_I guess I better go. Write me when you get the chance – I'm sure your busy digging up the missing link or something, but… All the same, I'd love to hear from you. - Booth_

She read the letter repeatedly – exhaustively, in fact. She found herself wondering what his days were like, how far from enemy fire he might have been while writing… What he was wearing. There were graduate students and professors on the dig with her, many of them men who were very physically appealing in their way. And yet, she couldn't seem to get Booth out of her mind.

He'd written the letter on nondescript, lined notebook paper. The spiral edges had been trimmed neatly. Lying in her cot that night, she looked around self-consciously before surreptitiously bringing the paper to her nose. She closed her eyes, breathed it in. Imagined that she could smell him – the cologne of early morning when their days first began, or the deeper, more masculine scent of late evenings that was his alone. The leather of his jacket, the tang of beer on his breath.

She lay there listening to Daisy and Trista sleeping. It had been a long, physically rigorous day, and yet she wasn't tired. She reached for the specimen jar holding Booth's sand, and spilled it onto her palm.

Nine months until she would see him again.

She let out a long-suffering sigh, got up, and went outside with pen and paper. Their camp was approximately fifty yards from the water, on sand that was a mixture of volcanic ash and fine-grained minerals. Carrying a battery-operated lantern, pen, and paper, she went to the edge of the water and sat.

_Dear Booth,_

_It's late here – two a.m. I'm not certain of the time difference. It seems like I should know, as I had become accustomed to you and I living on the same schedule for what seemed a very long time. It makes me uneasy when I don't know what your routine might be, or where you are in your day. I can't explain why, precisely – it just does._

_I wrote you an e-mail the first day I was here, but – like you – I couldn't seem to say anything of consequence. It seemed wiser to simply delete it at the time. Since then, I have written several subsequent messages… I just never seem to get very far with them._

_Thank you for the sand. Though I am not entirely certain what I am to do with it, I enjoy the idea that you held it in your hands before mailing it away. It makes me feel as though nine months isn't actually that long at all._

She wrote several pages on the dig, the others in the group, the things they'd learned thus far and the impact it might have on the scientific community. By the time she'd finished, the sun was coming up. Before she could convince herself otherwise, Brennan selected one of the less highly prized fossils discovered over the past several days – a flat piece of mineral with the imprint of a leaf from the Paleozoic era – and slipped it into the envelope.

The next letter came three weeks later. In the interim, Brennan had contemplated simply e-mailing Booth – at the very least to let him know she'd gotten his letter. For some reason, however, she had never gotten farther than his e-mail address.

She waited for his response.

The day that it came, it was 103 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, and Brennan had been working on excavating for several hours. Nevertheless, she chose to take her dinner back to the tent rather than remain with the others to discuss the day's findings.

She zipped the tent back up and sat on her cot. Her fingers were trembling when she opened the letter – a condition she attributed to overexertion, and possible heat sensitivity.

_Dear Bones,_

_It was really great to get your letter. I don't know if it's weird to keep writing like this when we could just email everyday or something, but… I don't know, I kind of like it. Emails are great for hearing from Parker and Jared and Cam and the squints, but Pops used to talk about getting letters from my Grans, when he was shipped overseas. He always talked about how much it meant, and everything they talked about that way. I guess you just want something you can hold in your hands when it's your girl, you know?_

_Now don't freak out on me, Bones – I know, you're not my girl. But give a guy a break, huh? I'm stuck out here with fifty sweaty, pimply-faced kids who've never even dreamed of somebody as good looking as you. One of them found a picture of you in with my stuff, and it was all over from there. As far as they're concerned, anyway, you're my girl._

_And you're gorgeous._

_Anyway, thanks for that whole dissertation on the evolution of man – what I used to know about the Paleozoic era could fit in your pretty little pinky finger, but now I'm thinking of running the lecture circuit when I get home. How the hell do you remember all that crap, anyway? Sometimes, your brain's a little scary, Bones._

_Don't get mad and stop writing, though. I'm just kidding around – truth is, I was glad to hear you babbling away about stuff that's always gonna be way over my head, like nothing's changed. Don't stop writing, okay, Bones?_

_Uh oh – reveille, guess that's one night's sleep I won't be getting. Doesn't matter, it's just another day of teaching kids how to kill each other. Guess you don't need much rest for that._

_This time, instead of sand I sent my poker chip. The sand just passed through my fingers, but that chip's spent the past few years clutched in my hand, pressed to my skin, riding in my pocket, rubbed smooth by my thumb… That poker chip's a lot bigger a part of me, you know? Kind of like you. You take good care of yourself, Bones. I'll talk to you soon._

_Booth_

She re-read the section about Pops a dozen times before dawn. "His girl" – she should be offended. Or at least disturbed that he was allowing others to believe they had a romantic relationship. She found herself wondering instead which photograph he had of her.

The next day, she carried Booth's poker chip in her shorts pocket. In the midst of bringing the latest finds from the dig back to the boat, on which they would be transferred to the mainland, she found herself returning to his words continually. "Gorgeous," he'd called her. She knew he found her attractive, of course – in truth, the way Booth simply looked at her could make the most flattering words from anyone else pale in comparison.

That night, though tired, she returned to the beach with lantern, pen, and paper.

_Dear Booth,_

_I understand what you mean about the letters. When I was in the foster care system, I was unable to carry very much of my parents' belongings with me, but I took the letters Max wrote to my mother when they were younger. They were very sweet, very personal, and I found myself appreciating the bond between them that much more as I read the words my father had written._

_Objectively, I can understand why you told the other men in your unit that we were romantically involved. And while the phrase does imply ownership of another human being (of which I tacitly disapprove)… I find that I don't mind that much if you'd like to tell them I'm "your girl."_

_I don't mind at all, to be honest. It's the least one can do for one's country._

_However, if you are going to start flashing my photograph around to your fellow soldiers, I would prefer the picture be current. I have included one of me after a volleyball match with Daisy and our tent-mate, Trista, at a recent pig roast. I am not especially fond of photos of myself, but Dr. Landry (one of my colleagues here) was very complimentary of it._

_I will keep writing as long as you do, Booth. You have now said several things that lead me to think you may be having a difficult time right now. I know I'm not typically that intuitive about such things, so I may be wrong. But if you are unhappy or lonely, I am sorry. I wish I could do something. I wish sometimes that I were there with you, or you were here…_

_A year never used to seem like such a very long time. Please be safe. Please be well._

_Yours,_  
Bones

_P.S. Angela told me that, in order to bond with your colleagues during wartime, dirty jokes are often highly lauded. Trista told this one the other day, which I thought your friends might enjoy:_

_A construction worker on the 5th floor of a building needs a handsaw. He spots another worker on the ground floor and yells down to him, but the man on the ground floor can't hear him. So, he tries sign points to his eye meaning "I", points to his knee meaning "need", then moves his hand back and forth in a hand saw motion. The man on the ground floor nods his head, pulls down his pants, takes out his cock and begins masturbating._

_The worker on 5th floor gets so pissed off he runs down to the ground floor and says, "What the fuck is your problem! I said I needed a hand saw!"._

_The other guy says, "I knew that! I was just trying to tell you - I'm coming!"_

Once she'd carefully folded the paper and put it in an envelope, she held the photograph she had promised for a very long time. It was a good picture – she knew, actually, that it was a good picture. It was also a fairly revealing picture, as it had been 96 degrees when they'd been playing volleyball on the beach. She was wearing a sheer wraparound skirt and a bikini top, her skin more tanned than she typically allowed, her hair up. In the photograph, they had just finished the game and she was seated on the rocks, her face flushed, a beer in her hands. It really was a good picture.

There just happened to be more cleavage than she typically revealed to Booth, in the picture.

She bit her lip. Looked at the specimen jar of sand, the poker chip, the photograph of Booth she'd brought with her. In the picture, he was wearing a suit and a striped tie. They'd been on a case – it was a crime scene photo, and she'd taken it because… Well, because it was Booth. She liked the photo, but it was nothing like she was sending him now.

She took a breath, and released it. Put the picture in the envelope. Sealed it.

It was done.

Booth's response took another three weeks – enough time for Brennan to rethink everything she'd said in the letter, to suffer any number of remonstrations for sending the photo, to vow that she would just e-mail in the future… To worry, nightly, about Booth's safety.

When his letter arrived this time, Brennan left the dig early that day and returned to the camp without the others. She didn't bother going to her tent, instead taking her by-now customary spot on the beach. She opened the envelope and bit her lip at what fell out. It took a moment to remember how to breathe properly.

In the photograph, Booth was seated on a stool outside a tent. The sun had set, and the sky behind was blue-black and hazy. Booth wore camouflage pants and Army boots. His St. Christopher's medal.

Nothing else.

His legs were spread, his elbows resting loosely on his knees. He held a beer in his hands.

She studied his body – a body she knew, because there truly was no part of Booth that she hadn't seen at this point. From her impromptu visit to his bathtub that day to back adjustments to the surgery that had nearly taken him from her, she'd seen all of him now. Always from a distance, always an observer, but she'd seen.

She wet her lips. Her throat had gotten dry. Booth's arms were well-muscled, the definition in his chest more sharply defined than it had been before. The long fingers of his left hand were wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle. Brennan closed her eyes. Imagined, just for a moment, what it felt like to have those fingers moving over her skin. She'd felt it before – the first night they kissed. The last night they kissed. A thousand other times, when he'd touched her arm, the small of her back, her hand, her shoulder, her knee.

He'd touched her before. Never exactly where she wanted, but she'd still felt his hands on her body before.

She opened her eyes, and read his words.

_Dear Bones,_

_Holy shit. I'll start with the joke, because that seems like the place I'm likely to be the most coherent. You're a big hit with the guys, I'll tell you that much. It sounds like your friend Trista's a firecracker – you ever wanna set her up with anybody, I've got about twenty-five guys standing in line. Just between you and me, though, while I was reading the letter, I just kept thinking of you saying it to me – picturing your pretty lips wrapped around words like cock and fuck and… Maybe it's all those years in parochial school, but I'll tell you a little secret: A woman like you with a mouth like that gets me hard in about twenty seconds flat, Bones._

Brennan stopped and re-read the line. She wet her lips again. There was an ache, a flush of heat and moisture and emptiness spreading down low. She swallowed hard, and returned to the letter.

_Anyway, the joke was appreciated. I'll see what I can find around here to keep you guys entertained out on the Mukluk Islands, but the humor isn't exactly high brow. There are a lotta fart jokes in the desert, Bones. It's not pretty._

She finished reading it and checked the postmark – he'd dated it October 5. It was now the 17th. She'd received an e-mail from Angela yesterday, who had assured her then that she'd just gotten a message from Booth. He was fine. Things were good. He had apparently been very clear that it was important for the artist to convey that information to Brennan.

_Not that it sounds like you guys need much entertainment. Pig roasts and volleyball on the beach? Geez, Bones, if I'd known you were gonna be at Club Med for the next year, I might've rethought this whole Army thing and just gone off with you instead. So, you've got Daisy and Trista there, right? What about everybody else? I guess there are probably a lot of good looking guys there helping dig this place up with you. There's not much in the way of women here, of course, so I'm not dating. Not that you asked or anything. But, you know, if you were wondering._

_Shit – I just got a call, something's up. I've gotta finish this and get it out, looks like I'll be on the move for a few days._

_Before I go, though, I just wanted to say… That picture just about took my breath away. No doubt about it, Bones, you're the most beautiful woman on the planet. No question. I've stared at that picture for days now, so much that when I close my eyes I can smell that sweet, fruity shampoo you wear that I love so much, I can feel your head on my shoulder… And maybe it's because I'm on my way out to God knows where and it's late and I've got a couple beers in me and there's no one in the world I miss more than you (except Parker, of course, but in a REALLY different way), but I just wanted to say, before the moment's passed and I never get the chance again… I'm trying to get space and make things in my head change, but you're still the one I think of before I go to bed every night. And they're not exactly the pure thoughts of friendship and charity, either. The things I'd do to you if we were alone, if you gave me the nod, if the stars were lined up and the heavens were smiling… Temperance, I swear to Christ, I'd worship every inch of you for days at a time, and then when you couldn't take anymore we'd take a break, order a little take-out, drink a couple beers, and then I'd start all over. From the tip of that cute nose all the way down those mile-and-a-half long legs, and… God, everywhere in between. Please, God, definitely everywhere in between._

_Okay. I've gotta go. And you might think I'm gonna chicken out and not send this, but you're wrong. I've got the envelope set, I've got a shot the guys took of me the other night that isn't half bad, and I've got somebody in a jeep waiting to dump me in the sand for some godforsaken mission or other. I'm sending it._

_I miss you, just in case you didn't get that._

_Yours,_  
_Booth_

Now, Brennan understood why – he'd known that, once she got the letter, she would be concerned for his safety. Whatever the mission had been, he'd apparently come through unharmed.

He was alive. He was well. She looked at the photograph again; ran her fingers over the smooth surface, touching the hard planes of his chest, his shoulders, his jaw. Careful not to wrinkle them, she placed both photograph and letter in the back of her notebook. The others were on their way back to the camp, but she ignored them. The sun was setting when she began to write.

_Dear Booth,_

_I'm very glad that you liked Trista's joke. I asked her to tell me others, which I have recorded and will include at the closing of my letter. As for your soldier friends, they will be disappointed, as Trista is a lesbian. She has actually made several overtures toward me, but I think if she were to see the photo you just sent, she might be open to a threesome_

_Angela informed me yesterday that you returned safely from whatever mission you were on. Obviously, I received your letter. And your photograph. It's a very good photograph. Have you been exercising more? It's not that you weren't very physically appealing before, but it looks as though you have built up more muscle mass since I last saw you. You look_

She stopped. Thought of the words he'd written. The fact of where he was. If he could be honest with her, why the hell couldn't she be honest with him? Who knew what would happen in the next few months, but did she really want to risk not saying what she desperately wanted to say, simply out of fear? She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, contemplating for a moment, before she returned to her task with renewed determination.

_You look good. If I took your breath away in my photograph, you succeeded in doing the same for me. I've always admired your body – if I were to be as honest with you as you've been with me, I have to admit that I've thought about it, at times, lying awake at night. Last week, we took a schooner to the mainland on a three-day sail. I slept in a closet-sized berth that smelled of sweat and strangers, rocked to sleep by a gentle surf, and lying there I imagined you beside me. Imagined your mouth at my neck, your hard body behind mine, your hands at my breasts. My hand traced a path over the places I wanted you most – drifting over my nipples, down my stomach, teasing lower, and lighter… I imagine that you are a tease, that you go slowly when I would want to go fast, would just want you inside me, and so I forced myself to take more time. My fingertips skirted down, parting my legs, lazing along my inner thighs the way I imagine you would do. I closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to feel your tongue, your talented mouth, kissing its way along my upper thigh._

_I ached that night, Booth. By the time I finally allowed my fingers to my center, I was dripping. Slick, yearning, writhing for an impossible memory – impossible because I know it never happened, and yet thinking of you and I together feels as natural as a favorite song played so long ago that it lives on only in my subconscious. I came that night with your name on my lips, my back arched and my heart racing. Imagined you stroking my hair, your lips at my temple. At times over the years, I've convinced myself that all I really need from you is sex – just one time, just one night where we let ourselves go, and I would be able to forget this. Move onto someone else, something else. But that theory seems invalid, because once I'm sated I still want you near me. I still long to be in your arms._

_You were brave to send your letter – you're always brave, though. I am not, but I think you deserve a response. You deserve to know that I think of you. There are other men on this island, they are good looking and intelligent and interested._

_They barely exist to me, at the moment. At night, I dream of you._

_Continue to be safe. Don't be you. Please don't be you. There's nothing I want so much as to see your face, waiting for me at the coffee cart in six months._

_Yours,_  
_Bones_

She included another joke Trista had told her, and then, after a great deal of thought, took the kerchief that had been holding her hair back, and folded it into quarters before sealing it and the letter in an envelope. There was no turning back, she told herself – even if she tore the letter up, never sent it, something had changed in her mind.

_They_ had changed.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

It was a month before she heard from Booth again. On Thanksgiving, she received a single line by e-mail that said, "Thinking of you all the time. Letter's on its way." She knew from the others that he had been out of communication with everyone for some time. Her days were filled with work and new discoveries, with laughter and camaraderie and a lack of mortal danger that she found surprisingly refreshing, but there was still, always, the question.

Where was he? Was he safe? Hurt? Living, or dead?

She recalled him telling her one night that loving someone was worth all of the doubt and pain, but she was beginning to think he might be full of shit. For the most part, all this worry seemed like torture.

On December 2nd, she received a small package, his letter enclosed. Everyone else was in the vicinity, opening their own mail; she retreated immediately to her tent. Inside the box was a black t-shirt with an FBI logo in the left corner. When she was assured that no one else was around, she pulled the t-shirt on over her tank top, sat down on her cot, and began to read.

_Bones,_

_Bones, Bones, Bones. Jesus, do you have any idea what that last letter did to me, woman? You keep that kind of talk up and you're gonna have one sex-crazed Ranger show up on your doorstep out there on Magoo-Goo Island, and then what are you gonna do? (In case you can't think of anything, I've got about 120 suggestions, just off the top of my head). And, yeah, Bones, I guess I've bulked up a little – but the phrase is working out, okay? Middle aged women exercise, riding a stationary bike while they watch Oprah. Big, tough, macho guys like yours truly work out. And since your letter, I work out A LOT – I've got a lot of pent up frustration to get rid of over here. Otherwise, I'd be sporting morning wood all damn day (that's an erection, Bones). _

_I'm really sorry I didn't write back sooner. Things have been kind of crazy – I just got back to base, then they shipped us out again. They're sending more soldiers through all the time. I teach them what I can, before a fresh batch shows up. I just got word that six of the guys I trained when I first got here got killed by a roadside bomb. _

_Sometimes, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I believe in our country, Bones. I believe that losses are necessary to preserve the kind of freedom I want for my son – I really do. But sometimes… Yeah. Sometimes, it still fucking sucks. I miss Parker. I miss you. Hell, I even miss the squints lately. _

_All right, just had to get that out of my system. You were right a while ago when you thought I was having a hard time. You can be a pain in the ass sometimes, Bones, but don't sell yourself short. When it counts, you see what's really going on. Okay, not always – but most of the time. And when you don't… Well, that's what you've got me for._

_Among other things. _

_So, Trista's into chicks, huh? Gotta say, anybody else mentions a threesome and I'm the first to sign up, but you… Nope, I couldn't do it. Just the thought of sharing you with anybody else makes me nuts. Man or woman, doesn't matter – it's my mouth I want all over you, my hands, my cock buried so deep that you're never gonna want us to end. You say you imagine my mouth between your legs, and believe me when I say I've lost whole days to that particular fantasy… Dreamed of what it'd be like to taste you, the feel of your hands in my hair, the look on your face when you slip over the edge. When we're together again, I'm talking days without seeing the sun. The FBI can go fuck themselves… I've got better things planned when I get home. _

_And that kind of brings me to the next thing. Which is… Listen, I know we haven't really talked about stuff, and this is a weird way to all of a sudden be talking about the thousands of ways I want to blow your mind when I see you again, so, I mean, if you're uncomfortable or scared or whatever… I just really hope you'll talk to me, you know? Don't just go freaking out, Temperance. We can do this. I said it before, and I'll keep saying it: I knew from the start. It's supposed to be you and me. There's this line in a book I borrowed from one of the guys here, and I know it's really corny and over the top and whatever, but it still always makes me think of you. _

"_For I have loved you from the first day, and always shall."_

_Geez. It looks even more corny when it's written out like that. Still... That's what you do to me. It might just be because I haven't seen a real, live woman in months, and you have the best fucking tits this side of… ever, though, so don't let it go to your head. _

_I think I've wrung all the Bones-smell out of that hair thing you sent me, so you think you can send something else? Anything. I just like having a piece of you with me, you know? I keep watching these guys leave, keep hearing shells coming closer and reports getting worse, keep thinking about Parker and how someday he could be one of these kids shipped off to die, and… Shit, sometimes I feel like I'm losing it over here. But it's quieter, easier somehow, when I'm holding a piece of you. _

_Sorry, I didn't mean to make this whole thing sound so dire. I'm really fine, Bones, I swear. Just lonely, and tired of being away from home. Tired of being away from you. _

_I better go, sounds like chow's on. Take care, Bones. Know I'm thinking of you all the time. Write when you can. _

_Yours, _

_Booth_

She read the letter again and again, and then one more time for good measure. Over dinner, she read it once more. There were eighteen people working on the team, people who were not only colleagues but who had become friends, but she ignored everyone that evening. She received several insinuating glances when she kept Booth's t-shirt on as she walked around the camp, but she didn't care. As a teenager, Brennan had observed classmates who would wear their boyfriend's rings, sweatshirts, t-shirts, or what-have-you. She always felt slightly superior to those girls; anthropologically speaking, that type of gift was such a transparent way for the male of the species to mark the female as his possession.

"My girl," Booth called her. She sat on her cot with the letter beside her later that evening, her knees curled up to her chest, and buried her face in the soft cotton t-shirt, breathing him in. It occurred to her that this type of ownership didn't have to be derogatory or threatening. It didn't have to be demeaning. For I have loved you from the first day, and always shall.

He was right – it was very corny. And over the top. Nevertheless, she found herself surprisingly moved by the sentiment. She lay down on her cot and pulled the collar of his shirt up over her nose. Closed her eyes.

A moment later, she sat bolt upright when she heard the tent door being unzipped.

Trista stood just inside in shorts and a tank top, an amused expression on her pretty face.

"Sorry, Dr. B, didn't mean to interrupt. Let me guess – your mate, the super agent, finally wrote you another letter?"

Trista had dark hair swept back in a ponytail, a satchel over her shoulder. Her accent was so thick that it had taken several days before Brennan had become accustomed to it enough to understand half of what the woman was saying. Of course, the majority of her words were not fit for anyone under eighteen, so it was fairly simple to catch the gist. Apparently in Australia, there was less of a professional barrier between professors and their students.

"This was the first time he had a chance," Brennan said, as though the other woman had somehow implied otherwise.

"Oh, I've no doubt. I'm glad he finally got 'round to it, though. No offense, but you're not a lot of fun when you don't have your sergeant whisperin' sweet nothings from a thousand miles away."

Trista tilted her head slightly. She was only an inch or two shorter than Brennan, but well-muscled. A woman whose athleticism came naturally, and never failed to impress Brennan. Volleyball, surfing, yoga, boxing, dancing… Trista was rarely still, and never seemed out of her realm in the physical world.

"What?" Brennan asked, when she realized the other woman was studying her.

"Nothing, really. Just… I hope I'm in love like that someday. You're just fucking shining, inside out. Must be amazing, being loved like that."

Brennan felt herself blushing. "We're just…" She stopped. Realized she could no longer finish the sentence honestly, as she once had. Friends. Partners. Certainly, they were still both those things. But it wasn't all they were, any longer.

"Oh, you're 'just,' all right. Just fucking adorable, love." Trista completed for her. "Now, you ready to tear yourself away so we can get on with this?"

Brennan made a face. The sun had set; a full moon was shining down on the island, the winds high and a significant amount of commotion coming from the camp outside.

"Perhaps we should call it off."

"What?" Trista looked appalled. "Are you fuckin' balmy? Don't you want to see what mysteries this place reveals to us by the light of a gorgeous, full fucking moon? C'mon. I know – you just want to stay here, have a little time alone to tickle your clit with that handsome soldier fresh in your head."

"I don't know even know what that means," Brennan said, though of course she knew precisely what it meant. She stood, reluctantly folding Booth's letter and setting it with the others he'd sent. She did, however, keep his shirt on.

"Come on, Doc. I'll tell you some stories you can write back to your man – we'll have that bloke's big, manly soldier dick so hard he'll be swimming the seven seas to get a taste of your sweet ass."

Brennan grinned. It was a pretty night – a good night to be outside, really. Booth could wait a few hours before she sat down to write him back. She followed Trista into the cool, dark night, with no idea how quickly the tide could turn.

It was ten days before Brennan sat down to write Booth again.

When she did, it was deep in the night. The weather had changed, and the air was cold on the beach. She wore a long-sleeved, thermal knit shirt under Booth's now-bedraggled t-shirt, a sweater topping them both. Thermal underwear and yoga pants. Before setting pen to paper, she stared out at the ocean with her arms wrapped around her knees, curling herself up as tightly as she could. She hadn't been warm in ten days, no matter how many layers she wore.

Her right hand was bandaged. Twelve stitches were sewn across her left cheekbone. The water was calm now. A sob welled up from somewhere deep; Brennan stuffed it back. She ran a hand through her hair. Picked up pen and paper.

_Dear Booth,_

_It's been some time since I got your letter. I nearly e-mailed you yesterday, but things got busy and our connection is sometimes difficult. The weather has been bad. _

She stopped. The same sob she'd felt before pressed against the wall of her chest, and she fought it for several seconds before she continued.

_Trista died today. We were on a night dig – I didn't want to go. Or… I suppose that's a lie. I was excited by the spirit of it, by the enthusiasm of the graduate students, by the possibilities of what we might find, what we might see. Landry thought it would be educational, and of course our students were eager to take part. _

_I should never have agreed to it. Intellectually, I know it is no more my fault than you saying you're responsible for the young men you've trained dying over there. I can't seem to stop thinking it, though. She was very beautiful. An amazing student. And she was a good person, I think. She told very good jokes. I should have said something. _

_It was a wave. She was swept out – one moment she was there, looking at something while my back was turned, and the next moment I heard her scream. I turned, and she was gone. We rescued her, dragged her in, but she'd been battered against the rocks. She never regained consciousness. They airlifted her to the nearest mainland hospital. Nine days on ventilators. The family made the decision today to let her go. _

_I don't know how you can believe in… anything. Tonight, sitting here alone, the world feels like a terrible, lonely, frightening place. _

_I would give up a substantial portion of my wealth right now to hear your voice. Hold your hand in mine. Lose myself in your arms. I never told you how much I love kissing you – not that I've had a great deal of experience, of course, but that first night… That first night, I lay in bed after I left you standing outside the bar and couldn't get the taste of you, the feel of your arms around me, out of my head. And then that Christmas when Caroline gave me an opportunity to taste you again… God, I wanted that kiss to last so much longer than five paltry steamboats. _

_I'm sorry I didn't kiss you back that last night, when everything in our world turned upside down. That night outside Sweets's office. You'll never know how sorry. The look on your face, all those torturous months afterward… I'll never forget that look. I'm still the same person, Booth. I'm still bad at this. I still balk at words like forever; I still fear, more than anything, that I will hurt you. You are such a good man. I feel, sometimes, that it is a personal weakness on my part that I don't stop this and let you find the person who can be everything you deserve. But… I want to try. I want to believe I'm the woman you seem to see. _

_I don't want to go backward (metaphorically speaking, not literally). I'll try not to "freak out," as you say. I want to see what we can be. I still don't believe in forever, necessarily, but I believe in you enough to question my own judgment on the matter. I might not know everything about everything just yet, as it turns out. _

_One of Trista's favorite singers was an Australian woman whose name I can't recall at the moment. A line in one of her songs keeps replaying in my head:_

"_You're the only one that feels like home."_

_I understand that now, when I might not have before I met you. You have always been the only one that feels like home. _

_Yours, _

_Bones_

She returned to her tent. Trista's things had already been packed away. The decision had been made not to bring anyone else into the program, as they were already more than halfway through the year's studies. Daisy was sleeping. She had been close to Trista, and Brennan knew she wasn't taking the loss well. Over the past week, the usually unbearably chipper graduate student had dropped weight, and become markedly more quiet. More withdrawn. She'd spoken frequently of Sweets ("Lancelot," Brennan thought with a mental eye-roll), and Brennan noticed that the good looking grad student she'd been spending time with had not been around nearly as much.

In the dim light of her lantern, Brennan returned to her own bunk and riffled through the clothing she had folded neatly beside her cot. Shorts, skirts, t-shirts. Tank tops. Underwear. Hats, bras, a minimal number of socks. She pinched the fabric of Booth's tattered t-shirt between her fingers, debating.

Finally, she stifled a grin. Thought of some of the deliciously off-color things Trista was always saying to her:

"Fuck your bleeding hair hanky, Dr. B – your panties, you silly cunt. A man like that needs a good whiff of snatch when he's alone in the desert all those months. His balls are prob'ly bluer than a fucking smurf's by now… Send him what you got on right now, and he'll be chasing you over the ends of the earth 'til you're both too old to do anything about it."

Brennan glanced at Daisy's sleeping form across the tent, took a breath, rolled her eyes, and pulled off the underwear she was wearing. They were cotton bikini briefs – sensible, since she was working, after all, but they were still attractive. Deep purple. They would do. Before she could second-guess herself, she folded the underwear neatly and put them in the envelope with the letter.

She sealed the envelope, lay down on her cot, and took out the letters Booth had written her. They were wrinkled now, worn from the countless times she had read and re-read them, memorizing phrases, imagining Booth writing every word. She closed her eyes. Breathed in the shirt that had ceased smelling like her partner some time ago, and wondered when she had become the kind of person who ached for someone else.

Five months seemed like an eternity.

It was Brennan's turn to help with dinner on Christmas Eve. There was a feast to help lend a festive air – seafood native to the island, Guinea fowl, freshly grown vegetables from the garden they'd planted. Brennan was working with Dr. Landry on the best strategy for serving everything when Daisy came racing over the horizon, looking flushed and gesturing with the wild enthusiasm that had been absent since Trista's death.

"Oh my God. Dr. Brennan. You have – you have a…" She stopped, gasping for air.

"I have a what?" Brennan asked, a shiver of fear climbing her spine.

Daisy held up her hand. She doubled over at the waist, hands on her knees, as she attempted to regain her breath.

"Is something the matter?" Landry asked. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, along with an apron too small for him with a cooking cat on it that said, inexplicably, "Mew-ah Stewart."

Daisy shook her head, her long hair flying back and forth. "No. It's just – Dr. Brennan." Another breath. And another. Brennan was preparing to throttle the girl.

"A call. You have a phone call. Up at central HQ."

"From whom?"

"Agent Booth. Or Sergeant Booth. Or – oh, I don't know. Booth!"

Brennan took off at a run, not even bothering to explain to Landry what was happening. She was sure Daisy would take care of that part, anyway.

Central HQ was a large, sturdy tent at the center of the island where all of their equipment and larger communications technology was housed. There was a satellite telephone there, as well as several computers and any of the more expensive pieces they couldn't risk to the weather. It was half a mile away, over rough terrain, climbing at a steady pace.

Brennan made it in just under eight minutes.

She slowed to a more sedate walk just before she hit the entrance to the tent, trying to get herself slightly more under control. She couldn't help but think something had gone wrong. Booth was hurt, or something had happened to Parker. She opened the tent door and glanced around, her eyes falling immediately on the sat phone waiting for her, one of the graduate students – Eli, a bright but unmistakably lazy twenty-something Welsh man – sitting beside it.

"Dr. Brennan," he said brightly. "You've got a call."

Brennan stalked over and took the phone from him. She didn't sit. She didn't bother to say hello.

"What's wrong?"

"Geez, Bones, how about 'Hello?' 'How's it going?' 'Merry Christmas,' even."

It was Booth's voice. Not hurt, not weak, not ready to deliver horrible news.

And, incidentally, not coming from the satellite telephone she held in her hand.

She whirled around, and very nearly passed out.

Booth grinned at her.


	3. Chapter 3

Booth's hair was cut shorter than it had been. He wore fatigues. Held his hat in his hands. Once she'd established that he was actually there, she didn't think twice. He met her halfway and she threw herself into his arms so hard she nearly knocked him – and them – over. She had no idea when she started crying, but she was, Booth's arms holding her so tightly she could barely breathe, his lips at her ear.

"Easy, baby. I'm here." She heard him say something to Eli, then Eli's voice raised in protest before Booth responded. "Scram, kid." The tent door opened. The tent door closed.

Gradually, she regained her composure. Once she felt she had herself fully in hand again, she took a few steps back, brushing away her tears. Booth grinned at her.

"Merry Christmas, Bones," he said.

She shook her head. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I thought…"

"It wouldn't have been much of a surprise then, would it?" His brow furrowed as he bridged the distance between them once more. "I got your letter – I was worried about you. And they gave me this week, so… I took a few days, went back stateside and got some quality time with Parks. I just cut that a little short, so I could make the stop here before I go back."

"You cut quality time with Parker short to come here? But – "

His eyes held on hers as he tipped her face to the side, checking the healing scar on her cheek. He brushed his finger over it gently, his hands so light that they were more sensation than touch.

"I was worried about you, okay? I talked to Angela. Apparently, you left out a pretty big part of the story about that night in your letter."

She wavered for a moment. "It wasn't important."

"What the hell were you thinkin', Bones? You don't just throw yourself into surf like that, I don't care how much you like the other person. You could've been killed."

"I'm trained in life saving procedures. I'm a very strong swimmer."

He took her hands. Looked her in the eye. "You could've been killed, Bones. Don't pull that shit anymore, okay? You take a dive like that, it just makes me look bad, staying safe and dry in the desert for a whole year."

She rolled her eyes, which made him smile.

"You got a counter-argument, Bones?"

"You can't protect me all the time. And you can hardly expect me to – " he tipped an eyebrow at her, a smirk on his lips. She stopped short. "And now you're making fun of me."

"What? Me? Never."

Silence fell between. His eyes fell to her lips and lingered there. He stepped closer; his left hand fell to her waist, pulling her in. She realized that somewhere along the line, she'd stopped breathing.

"How did you get here?" she asked.

"Planes, trains, automobiles, Bones. Not necessarily in that order." His voice was low, rough. His right hand traced the line of her jaw, his fingers twining in her hair.

"How long can you stay?"

She thought she saw a flicker of regret. "I go back tomorrow morning. They'll pick me up at seven. It was supposed to be longer, but…"

"You got called back?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

They were so close that Brennan found it difficult to get a full breath. Her hands rested on his chest, fisting in the cloth of his jacket. Holding him there. Their gaze held for a long moment. It was nothing she'd experienced before, that gaze between them – a combination of longing and understanding and something else, something more. Something she wasn't prepared to name, just yet.

When they kissed, it wasn't like the other times. Not like the first time, when he was a virtual stranger whom she thought might be amazing in bed. Not like the second time, when five steamboats was all she would get. Nothing like the last time, when everything felt broken. His lips were soft, sure, his hand in her hair as he held her close. It was a kiss she never wanted to end.

Unfortunately, however, it ended all too soon, when Daisy came crashing through the tent door.

"Oh my gosh! Look at you guys. This is soooo great. I have to call Lancelot. Agent Booth, are you – wait, should I call you Agent Booth, or should I call you Sergeant Booth? Or do you have some other title now? Because I guess as long as you've been in the Army, and all the heroic things you've done and the places you've been, not to mention killing, like, a hundred people over the years – not that I'm judging, because I know your heart's in the right place, and you're only trying to protect the country, which is, well, great. Oh my gosh. You guys are so cute."

Booth stepped away from Brennan slowly, and turned to face Daisy. "Hey, Daisy." He winced when he said it, as though the mere presence of the girl was physically painful. Daisy launched herself at Booth, hugging him soundly. Brennan raised an eyebrow at him; Booth rolled his eyes.

The moment Daisy disengaged, she began talking again.

"I have missed you guys sooo much. Not Dr. Brennan, of course, because she's been right here, but the two of you together – there's just something so comforting about the two of you together. It's like when I go home – not home to my house because, well, my parents are kind of crazy, and I'm the first person to say, 'Don't cast stones,' you know, but I spent a lot of time in therapy over the years, working on some issues that probably would not have arisen if – "

"DAISY!" Brennan shouted.

Daisy pulled up short. "Yes? I'm sorry – was I talking too much? I just – "

The door to the tent opened again, and Dr. Landry let himself in. He gave Brennan what appeared to be a somewhat awkward smile, before directing his attention to Booth.

"So, it's true, then. We have a guest. Sergeant Booth, it's so nice to meet you." He extended his hand. Booth stared at it for a moment, before directing his gaze upward, to meet Landry's eye.

"And – I'm sorry, who are you?"

"This is Dr. Mombatu Landry, Booth. Remember, I told you about him?"

Booth's eyes widened. "You're Landry? The anthropologist Bones – uh, Dr. Brennan – has been staying with for the past seven months?"

"One and the same. I wanted to invite you to join us all for dinner. I'm sure you have a great deal of catching up to do, but perhaps you could spare some time to meet the rest of the crew. Dr. Brennan and I have prepared quite a feast for the holiday."

Brennan stared at Booth, who nodded numbly. "Yeah, of course. I'd love to."

The instant Landry turned to go, Daisy started in again. "So, Agent – Sergeant Booth, how long – "

Dr. Landry stopped mid-step, and turned. "Ms. Wick, perhaps you could walk with me? I'd love to discuss the findings uncovered on the north shore last afternoon."

Daisy hurried off, leaving the two of them alone again. Booth shook his head.

"That's Landry?"

"Yes."

"The Landry you're always talking about, the guy who's looking at half-naked pictures of you and hanging out at dig sites in the middle of the night and bringing you beers while everybody else is asleep?"

"That only happened once, actually," Brennan pointed out. "But, yes – he's the only Landry here." She hesitated at the look on Booth's face. "Is there a problem?"

His eyebrows shot high up his forehead. He lowered his voice. "The guy's like 6'4", Bones. I mean, I'm off in the desert thinking you're holed up with some shriveled guy in his sixties with glasses and a bad prostate. Mombatu Landry? Where the hell's he from?"

"Kenya. His adoptive father was from England, but he spent the first fourteen years of his life in Africa – hence the accent. He's really quite brilliant. And he's led a remarkable life."

"Yeah, well, I think he's got a thing for you."

"Please don't start that. You barely spoke to the man."

"I didn't need to – a guy can tell. Is he married?"

She shook her head.

"Gay?"

"Booth."

"I didn't think so. He's got a thing for you. Great. Why the hell isn't he jumping into killer waves to rescue people, instead of tossing you overboard?"

Brennan crossed her arms over her chest. Set her jaw. Tilted her head. Waited. When he was silent for another moment or two, she arched an eyebrow at him.

"Are you through?"

He rolled his eyes. "I guess so. You know I'm a war hero now, right?"

She took a step toward him. He took a step toward her.

"We should join the others for dinner," she said.

He nodded. Took another step toward her; their bodies touched. He rested his hands on her waist.

"I'm sorry about your friend," he said quietly.

Her eyes filled. She nodded. "Thank you."

The radio crackled nearby. Booth tucked a tendril of her hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger on her cheek afterward.

"I wish I was gonna be here longer. I just got word this afternoon, on the flight over here. I thought I'd be able to stay for a couple of days."

"But you're here now," she said softly.

He nodded. Tipped his forehead to hers, pulling her closer. "Yeah, babe. I'm here now."

When they got back to the camp, everyone else was already seated at a series of picnic tables situated on the white sand of the island's western shore. Landry had saved space for both Brennan and Booth at his customary table, along with the other faculty and the more highly regarded professionals on the team.

A somewhat awkward silence fell between them as Booth piled his plate. Brennan took her time – not really because she couldn't decide what to eat, but more because she found herself thinking more and more about what Booth's presence meant. How the others would view it. By the time she got to the table, Booth was already there, waiting for her.

"Why aren't you sitting?" she asked.

There were five others at the table – all of whom turned their attention to the military man at Brennan's question. Booth looked uncomfortable.

"I was just waiting for you, Bones."

She stared at him blankly. "Why?"

"Chivalry is never dead in the armed forces, Temperance," Landry said, with a kind smile.

"It's nice to know they're teaching our boys something useful over there." This from Dr. Melville – a singularly unpleasant woman with whom Brennan had been clashing since first arriving on-site. "I mean," she continued, "besides how to invade someone else's native land, kill their families, and rape their natural resources."

Booth sighed. "Yeah. Maybe I'll sit," he said quietly. Brennan noticed that he didn't even meet Melville's eye.

Brennan joined him a moment later. There was little space at the table for everyone, so they were crowded in quite closely. Booth jostled her elbow once. Then again. After a moment, she realized he was doing it purposely.

"Booth – you're going to make me spill my beer."

"Sorry, Bones. Didn't see you there."

She rolled her eyes. When his knee bumped against hers under the table, however, she found herself warming to his close proximity.

"So, Sergeant Booth," Melville began again, effectively ending their light exchange. "It's not often we break bread with a military man. Perhaps you could share some of your philosophies on how this conflict came to be – and why, precisely, we continue to send our men over there."

Booth wet his lips. He looked at Brennan, then back at his plate.

"This food's great," he said. "Not exactly what I'm used to for Christmas Eve, but it's delicious. You guys eat like this all the time?"

Brennan squelched a smile at the look of frustration on Melville's face.

"Sergeant, I asked you a question," the woman persisted.

Silence settled over the table. Brennan noticed a tensing in Booth's jaw, his fingers tightened ever so slightly around his fork.

"We actually don't," Landry said. Everyone turned to him in confusion. "Eat like this all the time," he clarified, looking directly at Booth. Booth smiled. "But we thought this would be a nice time for everyone to come together, have a good meal. Enjoy one another's company in an amazing setting. Temperance actually helped with quite a bit of the preparation this afternoon."

Booth bumped her shoulder, giving her a slick grin. "Nice, Bones. You've always been a good cook."

Dr. Jensen, one of the oldest and most highly regarded professionals in the field of forensic anthropology, was seated to the right of Brennan, while Booth was on her right. He raised an eyebrow at the comment.

"So, Tempe's a domestic back in D.C.? That's hard to picture."

"Makes the best mac n' cheese on the planet," Booth said without hesitation. "And she can open a take-out box like nobody's business." The others laughed.

With the exception of Dr. Melville.

"Perhaps we could – " the woman began.

"So, Dr. Landry," Booth interrupted, never even looking at the woman. "You said something about a discovery on the north shore? I'd love to hear a little about that."

Brennan stared at him. "You would?"

"Sure, Bones. I was reading that book by what's-his-name…" Brennan waited, completely at a loss as to where he might be going with the conversation. "By that guy Wallace – pretty interesting stuff."

"Alfred Wallace?" she asked.

Booth nodded. "Alfred Wallace – yeah, that's the guy. The geology of the islands got my attention."

She set down her fork, and stared at him openly. "The geology of these islands got your attention? So you read 'The Malay Archipelago?'"

"I can actually read, Bones."

The others were watching their exchange with what appeared to be great interest, but Brennan found she couldn't quite let it go.

"But you always make fun of me when I talk about my work."

"That's 'cause I know it bugs you." He leaned closer. Lowered his voice slightly. "You're kinda cute when you're bugged, Bones." He shrugged. Speared the last sliver of crab on his plate and popped it in his mouth. Chewed for a moment, then met her eye. "Doesn't mean I'm not interested in what you do."

She held his gaze in silence for a long few seconds. She could feel the length of his leg pressed against hers through the sheer skirt she wore. Was conscious of the heat of his body, the familiar smell of him, but the look in his eye was something she had not experienced before. She swallowed.

"Excuse me," Dr. Melville interrupted, with considerably more vehemence now. "I don't appreciate being ignored."

"And yet it happens so often," Jensen said, the comment directed at Booth. Booth kept his focus on his beer, but Brennan thought she saw him hiding a smile.

"I'd like to know, Sergeant Booth, how you justify teaching young men – "

"Cheryl," Brennan said quietly, her voice tinged with steel.

Dr. Melville looked at her. She had short, dark hair and a short, thick body, her eyebrows too bushy and her eyes a neutral shade that was not quite green, not quite blue. Brennan realized, sitting there, just how much she honestly disliked the woman.

"I'm just asking a question," Melville said innocently. "Spirited discussions are never out of place among intelligent people, are they?"

Booth took another drink of his beer, and set it down. He appeared to be debating something.

"Would you like seconds, Sergeant?" Jensen asked. "There's plenty."

"Excuse me," Melville said, more loudly this time. "I would like an answer to my question. I'd honestly like to know how a woman like Temperance became involved with a man who makes his living killing innocent – "

"Lady," Booth said suddenly. His voice was low – a tone Brennan had learned long ago meant nothing favorable could result. Nevertheless, she made no move to stop him.

"I'm trying to have the only Christmas dinner I'm gonna get, before I go back to the desert. Have I killed people? Yeah, I have. Before my tour's up, I'll probably kill more. You wanna know how I sleep at night? I sleep just fine, thanks. Why I do it? I do it so know-it-alls like you can drive around Jersey in your Prius's, live in paradise digging in the dirt six months a year for fun, and spend the rest of your life locked up in academia, bitching about the Neanderthals who get gunned down defending your country. I do it because I love my country, and I love my kid, and I'd do anything – including putting my life on the line every fucking day – to keep them both free. You wanna get into a political debate with me, do it on your own time. I'm on vacation."

Silence fell over the table for a moment. Brennan cleared her throat. She looked directly at Melville. "That's why I'm with Booth," she said simply.

Color rose in the woman's cheeks, her mouth tensed in a straight line. Landry looked at her thoughtfully.

"Cheryl, I was hoping someone could check those specimens in the western grid before sunset. Could you perhaps…?"

Her bushy eyebrows climbed her forehead. "Now? You can't just – "

"Perhaps he can't," Jensen interrupted with a smile, "but I can. Hurry along now, Dr. Melville. I'm sure we'll talk about all of this ad nauseam tomorrow."

When she had gone, Booth was quiet for some time before he gradually began to participate in the conversation once more. Landry and Jensen discussed the details of some of the work the team had done thus far. The smells of wood smoke from the fire and sea salt were strong in the air. Brennan tried without success not to pay attention to passing time, but found herself glancing periodically at her watch. It was seven o'clock - the day's heat had passed, a cool breeze taking its place. The sun would not set for another three hours.

Finally, after Booth had told a few of the stories of their work back in Washington, and even fewer stories of his time in Afghanistan, Jensen looked pointedly at the two of them.

"So, Sergeant, what time did you say you'd be heading back tomorrow?"

The same shadow fell over Booth's face that she'd seen earlier. "O-seven-hundred, sir. A chopper'll pick me up."

"Not much time."

Booth shook his head. His eyes fell to Brennan's. The crowd had cleared out, so it was only the two of them, plus Jensen and Landry and a few graduate students scattered on the ground and in lawn chairs around the table.

"No, sir. Not much at all."

Jensen scratched his chin. He had thick white hair that hadn't been cut in too long; it had a tendency to stand straight on end on the more humid days, and waved like a live thing when the man was excited.

"Tempe, why don't you take the volcano house tonight?"

Booth looked at her as her eyes widened. "The – but that's… Jasper, we couldn't."

The man waved his hand dismissively. "The hell you couldn't."

"What the hell's the volcano house?" Booth asked quietly, leaning in to Brennan.

"Full kitchen, stocked fridge," Jensen began, "balcony with the best view of the island this side of heaven."

Booth looked at her.

"That's your home," Brennan said to Jensen. "We couldn't…"

"I haven't been up there in five years," he said. "I've got a maid who keeps the place clean and stocked for the times my boys want to make the trip out here. Otherwise, it stays empty. The key's under the mat. Go."

"Where is it?" Booth asked.

Brennan looked to the left, directing her gaze skyward. Barely visible from this vantage was a tiny house on stilts, built on the side of a long dormant volcano.

"That's the volcano house," she said.

Booth raised an eyebrow. "That – the shack on the top of the mountain?"

"Hot tub, full bar. No grad students…" Jensen continued. He paused. Looked at Booth for a moment. "Queen-sized bed with fresh, 400 thread-count sheets."

Booth looked at her. His eyes seemed just a shade darker than they'd been a moment before.

"It's up to you, Bones."

It took her less than a minute of thought before she was up from the table and headed down the path. When she realized Booth was still seated, she called back over her shoulder.

"The hike will take at least two hours."

Booth was at her side within seconds. HIs hand found hers a moment later; she found she could not quite contain her smile. Any trepidation she might have felt was quickly replaced with anticipation at the thought of the trek - and the destination - that awaited. They set out.


	4. Chapter 4

Brennan went back to her tent and packed a bag, avoiding the barrage of questions directed her way from Daisy. Booth waited outside. It took her far longer to pack than it should have – they would be gone for less than twelve hours, after all. And, if all went right, how much clothing would she actually need?

That thought sent her into such a spiral of doubt and remonstrations that she nearly called the entire thing off. Instead, she forced herself to breathe. Thought of Angela and Hodgins in Paris; of Booth headed back to a world of which she knew virtually nothing. Thought of Trista, young and vibrant and full of optimism, her life extinguished in an instant.

She put a change of underwear, shorts, and a sweater in her bag. She was wearing a white, wraparound skirt and a black tank top. Months of heat and isolation had gotten her out of the habit of wearing her beloved necklaces; now, she took a moment to look over her collection before she decided against accessories. Glanced out her mesh window, to see Booth looking out on the horizon with such intensity that she found herself wondering what he could possibly be thinking. She tossed her pack over her shoulder, grabbed a canteen of water, and left the safety of home.

"Hey," she said to Booth, once she was outside. He looked up, as though he'd forgotten where he was for a moment.

He smiled when he saw her. A real smile – his eyes lit up as he stood there, watching her approach.

"You ready?" he asked.

She considered the question before nodding. "Yes. I packed – I mean… I don't expect we'll need that much, but I packed what I thought would be useful." She nodded toward his own backpack, a much larger bag that appeared bulky and far too heavy for the climb.

"You can just leave anything you won't need tonight in my tent. It should be safe there. You probably don't need… Whatever's in there."

He shrugged. "I've got it, might as well just bring it along. It's not a big deal."

"It looks quite heavy."

"I can handle it, Bones."

She started to argue, then shrugged. "Fine. Just try to keep up."

He grinned. "I'll do my best, Bones. I'll do my best."

One of the advantages to a year of living outside in an environment like the islands was the level of physical fitness Brennan had achieved over her time there. She felt strong again. Living in D.C. under the stress of a job that she'd found increasingly stressful, her body had ceased to function as well as she'd become accustomed. She ate well, she exercised, she was perfectly healthy in relative terms… But here, Brennan had rediscovered what it was like to treat her body as more than merely a vehicle to get from place to place. She was toned, balanced, her endurance never better. As she followed the path up the mountain beside Booth, she found herself reveling in the way her body responded to each new challenge.

Booth, it appeared, had experienced the same thing. His photograph hadn't lied: he had built up muscle mass since she'd last seen him. And while he had certainly never been lacking in the fitness department, now the power in his step was a genuinely impressive thing to behold.

They walked in silence for the first thirty minutes or so of the trek, focusing on the path in front of them. There were things she wanted to ask him, but she wasn't certain how to open up the conversation. To be fair, there were also things she wanted to do with him, but she had no concept of how to start that exchange. They had not kissed again since the heated moment in the tent, before they were interrupted by Daisy. Brennan had no idea how to get that moment back. And so, they hiked.

At a particularly steep pass where the path gave way to a tumble of volcanic rock and struggling vegetation, Booth made it up the side first. He reached for her hand. She hesitated the barest instant, before she took hold. Her breath caught when she was nearly lifted off her feet as he pulled her up, the momentum carrying her straight into his chest, where he caught her and held on.

"Geez, Bones – you're lighter than I remember."

He made no move to release her; she made no move to escape. Her heart was beating erratically, though she knew it had nothing to do with exertion. Booth smoothed her hair back. Looked her in the eye.

"Hey, Bones," he said quietly.

"Hi," she said.

"Sorry I surprised you, showing up like I did."

"It was very unexpected."

He grinned. "Well, yeah, Bones… That's kinda the point of a surprise." After a moment, in which neither of them spoke and neither of them moved, his grin faded. His arms were still around her, his body warm against her own. "It looks like you've got it pretty good here – like you've made some friends, have a good thing going."

She nodded. "Yes. There are several people with whom I've developed an excellent rapport. I'm enjoying myself."

He loosened his hold on her, but still didn't quite let go. That look of intensity and distance crossed his face again.

"Listen, Bones, if I, y'know, misread things… With the letters. I know that sometimes when you get a little space, it's easy to say stuff in the heat of lonely nights and just think nothin's gonna come of it. I thought…"

She stepped back, looking at him quizzically. "Booth, I meant what I said in my letters."

That light came back into his eyes, though a shadow of doubt remained. He searched her face. "Yeah?"

"Of course. Why would I… I would never write those things if I didn't mean them."

He seemed to consider this for a moment. That moment stretched, until she realized something else was bothering him. She studied his face, looking for some clue as to the ways he'd changed in their time apart. She took his hands impulsively.

"You know me better than that – you know me better than anyone. Have I ever lied to you?"

He tucked the hair behind her ears. The sun was getting lower in the sky. The jungle had come to life – tropical birds screeching from the treetops, flashes of primary reds and blues dancing through foliage of brilliant green. It wasn't cold yet, per se, but it wouldn't be long before a jacket was necessary. They stood there a moment, bodies touching, not speaking.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" she asked.

He smiled at that. Rolled his eyes. "To be honest?" He sighed. "'Cause I'm afraid I'm gonna say something that'll ruin this whole thing and send you running for cover. I figure it's smarter to just shut up and see what happens."

She thought about this. It was difficult to have a coherent thought anymore, as her body responded with increasing intensity to the feel of Booth this close to her.

"Do you think I'm going to run for cover?"

"I don't know, Bones. I hope not. I hope you'll trust me enough to know that I'd never do anything to hurt you."

"I believe you," she said without hesitation. "I mean… I know that you would never purposely do something to hurt me. But it's still…" She stopped speaking and leaned up suddenly, capturing his mouth with her own. It took him a moment to catch up to her; once he did, his arms tightened around her. His hand was at the back of her neck, holding her captive, as the kiss deepened.

When they parted, she found it difficult to distinguish her own racing heart from his. He grinned – a full grin this time, with no hint of the reservations she'd found earlier.

"We should do that more often, Bones."

"I agree."

They stood there for only a moment more, before she pulled away. Up ahead, the path would get steeper; the night would get darker. Now that she knew what was waiting for them, however, it seemed as though the journey was worth all the trouble.

"Come on," she said, pulling him along with her hand tucked in his. "Let's keep climbing."

Over the course of the trek, Brennan pointed out some of the highlights of the island – the myriad of birds, insects, deadly snakes and even deadlier plant life. They spotted a Rothschild's cuscus high up in a nutmeg tree, the scent of the tree's fruit sweetening the already heady mountain air. They stood there for a moment, hand in hand, watching the small marsupial make its way up the slender branches, before they lost sight of it in the thick greenery.

The breeze from the ocean below was pleasantly cool, ruffling Brennan's hair, lifting her skirt ever so slightly. Booth's proximity and the chemicals crashing through her system thanks to that proximity seemed to heighten everything she experienced. Her sun-browned skin was shining with a combination of perspiration and moisture from the air. The sunset colored the horizon in pinks and golds, while far below, pale blue seas crashed against the shore in a show of power Brennan now recognized could not be underestimated.

When they stopped to admire the view from a precipice not far from the house, Booth took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. He held onto the lapels and pulled her closer.

"So you don't get cold."

"I have a sweater in my pack, Booth."

He shrugged. "My coat's warmer."

They turned, his arm wrapped around her shoulder, and watched the sun sink lower. She realized after a few moments that Booth wasn't actually watching the sunset at all, but was focused instead on her.

"What?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Nothing, Bones. It's just… you really love this island, huh? I mean, I've never seen you so peaceful. It's good you came here."

She gestured toward the horizon. "What's not to love, Booth? How could I not be at peace here? It's completely untouched by mankind. And the history is tangible – I can walk a path here and step backward in time. This, to me, is the concept at the very heart of reincarnation: not a literal interpretation, but the notion that we die, become part of the earth, and live on through the regeneration of the planet, while still paying homage to those who walked before us."

Booth tilted his head, studying her. There was a half-smile on his lips, and that look again – the one she wasn't ready to name.

"Wow. I don't know, Bones, that sounds a little out there for the girl I knew back home. You sound like your letters," he said.

"That makes sense, as I'm the one who writes my letters. I'm still the girl – woman – you knew, though."

Sadness touched his face suddenly, a darkness that seemed to be shadowing him since he'd first arrived. She twisted her hand in his shirt. Looked into his eyes. "I'm sorry – I know it's not like this where you are. I'm making amazing discoveries, living every day outside in a verdant jungle, and you're…" she stopped. His eyes had hardened.

"Killing people?" he completed for her. His voice had a cold edge to it.

"You know that's not what I think."

"Well, it's sure as hell what your buddy Melville thinks."

"She's not my buddy. I despise her – forget what she says. No one likes her." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "They call her Caterpillar behind her back. Because of her eyebrows."

There was silence for just a moment, before Booth laughed. It was a good laugh – a laugh from before, when their friendship was her world and they were the center. It was a laugh she had missed, she realized, more than anything else about her life in D.C. He hugged her to him and she hugged him back, and they stood that way for a few moments. It could have been one of their old 'guy hugs,' the way he held her. It could have been Booth and Bones, partners in crime. It could have been any time, any place, just like the five years they'd spent together protecting one another. Growing apart. Coming together.

But it was none of those things.

The sun was nothing but a strip of gold low on the horizon now. Four bats swooped in calculated circles above them, dining on the insects that populated the island.

"Are you sure about this, Bones?" he asked when they'd pulled back from their embrace.

"About wearing your jacket?"

"No, about – you know, this volcano thing…"

She smiled. She ran her knuckles down his stomach until she found the hem of his t-shirt. Lifted it, and felt the heat of bare skin under her hand. His whispered curse at the contact made something flutter in her chest.

"I know what you meant, Booth. I didn't fall off the potato truck – "

He stopped her with a kiss, his hands pulling her closer and closer still, his body searing against her own. His tongue swept her mouth; she could feel herself melting, moistening, until the ache was all that seemed to exist between them. After many, many steamboats, Booth pulled away.

"Turnip," he said, out of breath.

She stared at him blankly. "What?"

"It's a turnip truck, Bones. Not a potato truck."

He took her hand again. They walked on.

They stopped talking when the house came into view. There were any number of things she could say, inconsequential conversations she could start. Words eluded her. At the bottom of the ladder leading up to an expansive deck, she turned to Booth.

"This is it."

A slight smile touched his lips. A decidedly Boothy smile, which served to set her at ease.

"Yeah, Bones, I kinda figured. Ladies first."

She made it up the first two rungs before Booth stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Hey, Bones – hang on just a second, okay?"

She stopped. Came back down. Waited for him to speak.

"Is there something wrong?" she finally prompted him, when he didn't say anything.

He shook his head. "No – I mean, not really. It's just…" he rolled his eyes. Shifted uncomfortably, and finally got serious. "I wish I could be here longer. It was supposed to be longer than this – longer than just a night." He looked frustrated. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"Like what?"

"Like…" he gestured at the house, the horizon, the two of them. "This, Bones. Like I'm here for some booty call, and we're a couple of kids who've been sent off with a pack of condoms and the keys to Mom and Dad's cabin. I was supposed to be here for you. Not just for… this."

"So, you don't want… this?" she asked, imitating his sweeping gesture from a moment before. She tried to hide her disappointment as she took a step away from him.

"No – God, Bones, are you fucking kidding? I've hiked half this goddamn mountain with a hard on the size of Kansas. Trust me, I want it. I just don't want you to think it's the only reason I came here."

She considered this for a moment. "Booth, I know I'm not the only person who finds you attractive. And, while I know you're in the military and there may be a shortage of appealing sexual partners where you are, I still imagine you could find someone without a great deal of difficulty."

He looked utterly baffled. "Uh – yeah, Bones, I guess. I haven't exactly been burning the place down looking, though."

"But you could find someone, if you chose. As could I." She stopped. It was coming out all wrong. Booth looked like he didn't have the slightest idea what she was trying to say.

"We could have other people," she finally said, her voice rising with frustration. "I'm not vain enough to think that you would leave your son, charter a helicopter, and climb a mountain simply to spend one night with me, Booth. I'm very skilled in bed, but I'm not delusional. If you merely wanted sex, there are other sources you could tap."

"I don't know, Bones. There's not another source I'd like to tap on the planet about now."

The sun was down by this time, which meant that Brennan estimated it had to be close to ten o'clock. She was growing increasingly impatient with getting warmed up only to be forced to cool down over and over again. Fortunately, Booth seemed to sense her shift.

"So, you're okay?" he asked.

"I'm okay. I'm more than okay. I'm very happy you're here, and not at all concerned that you're only here to use me. Though," she added as an afterthought, "if you were only here to use me, at this point, I don't believe I would care." She slid her hands up his shirtfront, eliciting a low moan. Found the hem again and sought his bare skin, then ran her thumb along the waistline of his fatigues. Looked him in the eye. "I want this, Booth."

He caught his breath. With more roughness than she'd expected, he pulled her hands away, his mouth seeking hers. She took a step back at the intensity of his kiss, then found herself backed up against the ladder. Their kiss spanned several minutes, growing more frenzied with each passing second. When they finally made it up to the house, Brennan was shaking. She fumbled with the key. Unlocked the door. They dropped their things in the entryway and Brennan flipped on the lights while Booth continued to do miraculous things to the back of her neck with lips, teeth, and tongue.

She'd been in the house once before, when Jensen's son brought her and a few of the others up for a nightcap while he was visiting. It was a small place. The ladder led to a deck with as much square footage as the house itself. Inside, the scant generator-operated lighting cast the living room in shadows. There was a worn couch and a wicker chair. Bookshelves upon bookshelves. Photographs on the walls. The floors were hardwood, the walls painted in varying shades of blues and greens. The living room opened into the kitchen.

Booth left her standing at the lights and went straight to the refrigerator, where he retrieved two beers and opened them with a magnetized bottle opener on the refrigerator door. He took a long drink, standing at a bar that separated the two rooms. Brennan remained in the doorway. She felt flushed.

"Cool place," he said. He paused, his eyes hungrily taking in her form. She'd never felt so highly sensitized. "Hey, Bones," he said, his voice low. "You should come over here."

"Why?"

"'Cause I've got beer." He picked up the other bottle and held it out to her. She dropped his jacket to the floor as she walked to him. Stepped out of her sandals. Put a sashay in her step that she didn't recall using for Booth before. He never took his eyes from hers, his gaze taking on an unmistakably predatory edge.

When she reached him, he pulled her close immediately, his hand falling to that familiar space at the small of her back.

"You look pretty hot, Bones." He murmured in her ear. He took the beer bottle he held in his other hand and lay it against the bare skin of her sternum, above her tank top. She gasped at the cold. An instant later, she gasped again, when Booth began kissing the condensation and moisture from her skin. He backed her up against the bar, her hands fisted in his hair as he moved lower. His mouth found her stomach as he pushed her tank top up over her head.

She pulled him back up, her hands moving over his stomach and chest, pausing when he moaned as her thumb grazed his nipple. She pushed his shirt up, then watched as he pulled it over his head. They stopped for a moment, both breathing heavily. He was fully aroused – she could feel his length pressed to her stomach, studied his flushed face, his eyes now more black than the soft brown to which she'd become accustomed.

"We're really doing this," he said quietly, as though he couldn't quite believe it.

She nodded. She felt unaccountably self-conscious, suddenly, at the shift. His gaze fell to her breasts, now covered only with a sheer black bra. He smiled. Met her eye again as he slowly traced her skin along the edge of the fabric.

"You're beautiful. I mean…" he shook his head. "Seriously, Bones, this is what God had in mind when he created women. You're perfect."

She rolled her eyes. Her cheeks heated, but she didn't avert her gaze. "I don't believe in God."

"I know."

"Or marriage," she continued.

He nodded.

"Or monogamy."

He smiled at her. Smiled. Didn't appear bothered in the least. A picture of his cocky belt buckle flashed through her head.

"So I've heard, Bones."

He pushed her right bra cup aside, revealing a dusky nipple.

"But you don't care," she said uncertainly.

His thumb swept across her breast once, twice, until it had hardened under his ministrations. He bowed his head and took the nipple in his mouth. Rolled it under his tongue until she gasped, bucking her hips against his. He reached around to unclasp her bra. The offending garment fell away. His hands kneaded her breasts as he moved back up her body. Looked her in the eye.

"Not right now, I don't."

She hesitated. "You do believe in God."

He stopped moving. Studied her for a moment. "Yeah, Bones, I do. And marriage. And monogamy." He shrugged. "I won't change that. God's personal – you believe whatever you want, I'll do the same. Marriage is negotiable. Monogamy never has been."

They didn't move for several seconds, seemingly at a stalemate. His gaze softened. He cupped her cheek in his hand and looked at her intently. "Don't be scared, Temperance," he said softly.

"I'm not scared."

He didn't say anything to that.

"I can't promise I'll still be here ten years from now," she said.

"Nobody can promise that, Bones. I'm not asking for ten years." He smiled slightly. "Not right now, anyway."

She leaned against him. Rested her head against his chest as he stroked her hair. "I'm not scared," she said, so softly that she thought for a moment he wouldn't even hear her.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "Okay."

They stood that way for some time – skin pressed to skin, daylight giving way to night, seconds passing too quickly. There was an old wall clock in the living room that chimed every hour on the hour. At eleven o'clock, it rang out in clear, insistent tones.

Brennan kissed his clavicle. Moved up to his neck. Along his jaw, until she found his lips. He started to say something, but she kissed the words away. Backed out of the kitchen with her hands hooked in the front of his fatigues, pulling him with her.

French doors opened onto the bedroom, on the southern side of the house. Booth gave up any semblance of passivity as they crossed the threshold. Kisses became more urgent, his hands sweeping over her body. They reached the bed before she quite expected to and she fell backward; he lay down beside her and pushed her skirt up, his hands burning her flesh as they moved higher. There was no more conversation. Brennan was fairly certain she couldn't have come up with an intelligent comment under the threat of gunfire, at the moment.


	5. Chapter 5

She fumbled with Booth's zipper as her skirt bunched around her waist and he pulled her panties down her long legs and tossed them to the floor. He discarded his own pants next, then lay beside her in severely tented jockey shorts, his hands and mouth desperate on her skin. When she ran her knuckles along his shaft, her deft hands moving hungrily past the barrier of cotton between them, he gasped out loud. Backed away for a moment, then looked at her sheepishly.

"Sorry, Bones. I think we're working with a hair trigger tonight, if you know what I mean. At least… The first time. Second time'll be better." He grinned. "Third time, and you'll be begging for mercy."

She pulled her skirt off while he removed his boxers, and then stared for a long moment at his body – the familiar and the most-decidedly-not-so-familiar, the curves and angles, the power inherent in his physical form. She shimmied closer so that they lay side by side, so beyond ready by now that she could feel moisture leaking down her thigh. They kissed as Booth's hand moved to her center. Parted, stroked, filled her, then moved lower and his mouth fell to her core, devouring her.

She came with his name on her lips. Writhed under his mouth, her hand in his and her body coming apart from the inside out. Afterward, she lay in his arms while he traced the lines of her form with light fingertips. She set her own exploration, her hands finding the places that made him moan or curse, shudder or laugh out loud.

When she wrapped her fingers around his shaft once more, it elicited an immediate, "Fuck, baby." She did it again. "Christ, Bones, I…" She rubbed her thumb over his tip, coming away with enough ejaculate to serve as lubricant. Her mouth found his ear, her tongue running along both lobe and shell as she began to stroke him. She'd traveled the length of him only twice before he caught her hand with an iron grip and stilled her.

"I want you," he said, his voice roughened, dangerous, in her ear. "I want to feel you, Bones."

Their eyes met. She pushed him onto his back and then straddled him, rising up so that she was poised over him, hands splayed across his chest. He positioned himself at her entrance and she lowered herself slowly, a centimeter at a time. She gasped as he filled her, a strangled curse leaving Booth's lips.

She began to move. He cupped her breasts roughly, his eyes intent on her body, her eyes, her lips. She fell forward and his hands moved to her bottom, cupping her cheeks, before she felt him shift suddenly and he flipped them both, bodies still joined.

Everything slowed once more when their eyes met. She realized that she was waiting for him to say something. Then realized unexpectedly a moment later that he was doing everything in his power to stay silent. She held his gaze. Studied the strength in his jaw, the curve of his lips, the lines around his eyes. He kissed her then – differently than before. The fire was still there, but the hunger had been replaced with a tenderness she had never experienced from anyone else. She ran her hands down his back, along his sides. Whispered in his ear.

"I want you," she said quietly. There was a roughness to her voice; she realized that something about the moment had moved her. She was near tears, with no idea why.

Booth nodded. He kissed her again, and began to move. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him deeper. A thousand moments from their past came rushing at her: the first meeting, the kiss outside the bar, the fights, the harsh words, the hugs, the hundreds of meals shared in every circumstance known to man. Her body was coiling tighter, ready to unravel, and she could tell that he felt it by the way he deepened his thrusts, increased his pace, as though he could sense exactly what she needed.

When she hit the precipice this time, he was with her. His body was coated with a fine sheen of perspiration, his forehead on her shoulder as he came, emptying inside her. When he was through, he continued to support his weight with his arms to avoid hurting her. She pulled him down. Savored the pressure, the presence, until he rolled and she lay beside him, her head on his chest. They lay together in silence for a long time afterward. The clock chimed once more – it was midnight. Booth kissed her forehead, stroking her hair while they lay there.

"Are you sleepy?" she asked, without moving.

She felt his body shift as he shook his head. "No. You?"

She shook her head. Hesitated for a long moment. Her voice felt rough when she spoke again, as if she'd been silent for a very long time. "I don't want to go to sleep tonight. Let's just… Do you think we could stay up? I don't want to wake up and…"

"… find me gone?" he finished for her. He rolled so that they were facing one another and studied her face, gently tracing her features with his fingertip. "You've got no idea how much I'd give to stay, baby. I tried calling in just about every favor I had and a few I don't, to get somebody to take my place tomorrow."

"Where are you going?"

His eyes slid from hers. He scratched his neck. "I can't tell you that. I'm sorry, Bones."

"Oh."

The house had grown very dark. The sounds of the night surrounded them – the screech of tropical birds, the low calls of jungle frogs and innumerable insects. The air smelled of sex and sweat and a strange, new scent that she recognized as the distinct perfume they each gave off, now intermingled. It was the earthy musk of good sex – something that, typically, only the participants appreciated. She lay back down beside him.

She realized after a while, lying there fighting sleep, that she liked this – his arms around her, the sound of his heart in her ear. It felt odd to think that this was Booth; her partner, her best friend. The man who'd driven her mad, saved her life, become her confidante, changed her viewpoint on the world in which she lived. Once she'd given it some more thought, however, she realized that lying in his arms wasn't actually that odd at all.

"Booth."

"Yeah, baby."

She smiled at the unfamiliar moniker, unable to take offense despite a genuine attempt to do so.

"When we were at dinner tonight, you told Dr. Melville that you would likely take more lives before you left Afghanistan."

He went still beside her.

"I thought you were just training other soldiers."

"I can't talk about that either, Bones."

She propped herself up on her elbow so that she could see his face in the moonlight. He turned and did the same, his hand running slow circles up and down her side.

"It's dangerous? These things you can't tell me about… More so than what you'd initially expected?"

He ran his knuckles down her sternum, then brushed his hand over her sensitized nipples. She bit her lip. Maintained eye contact. Booth looked away first.

"Yeah, Bones. It wasn't a total surprise but, yeah… There's some stuff."

She nodded. There was a sense of dread, a feeling akin to panic, that suddenly took root in the center of her chest. She sat up.

"There's a hot tub on the deck," she said.

Booth smiled, but she was aware that he was watching her closely. "Okay."

"Would you like to…?"

"Yeah, Bones. I'd definitely like to." He took her hand and held on before she could get away, his eyes searching her face. "I'm okay, Bones. There are no guarantees, but there never have been. I'm gonna be okay."

She had no response beyond a nod, that ball of panic blossoming the more she sat with his hand in hers. Booth seemed to sense that he would get nothing further. He stretched his body across the bed and kissed her quickly. Got up without bothering to put on any clothes, and nodded toward the deck.

"You ready?"

She nodded. Had he pressed her at that moment, however, she would have had to admit that she suddenly didn't feel ready at all.

They spent an hour in the hot tub. Getting clean, getting dirty. Enjoying one another. Brennan felt herself begin to relax again. When they'd dried off, they fixed a plate of fruit from the refrigerator and brought it back to the bedroom, where candles now illuminated the darkness. Booth sat on the bed in his boxer shorts, while Brennan got under the sheets and tossed her tank top to the floor.

Booth raised an eyebrow at her action. "I may die before this night's up – you know that, right, Bones?" he asked.

She shrugged. Sucked on an overripe papaya. Grinned. "It's a good way to go though, right?"

"God, yeah. The best one I can think of." A look of realization crossed his face suddenly, and he hopped off the bed. "Hey, I almost forgot – it's Christmas. I've got stuff for you, Bones."

"What? That's not fair – I didn't know you were coming. I don't have anything for you."

He dismissed her words with a wave of his hand and padded off into the other room, returning with the backpack he'd carried all the way up the mountain. She tried to peek over his shoulder to see what he was getting, but he successfully blocked her view. When he turned around, he held two small, wrapped boxes, and a bag of unidentifiable sundries. He sat down and began pulling items from the bag.

First, a baseball hat with the FBI logo on it. He stretched it with his hand, then set it on her head backwards.

"To keep the sun out of your eyes, Bones. Gotta protect those baby blues." He reached back into the bag, and came out with a familiar looking, olive colored jacket. He draped it over her shoulders.

"That's to keep you warm at night, in case you start thinking big black professor types are more your style." Before she could say a word, he returned to the bag, producing two more black FBI t-shirts. "And I heard that last shirt I sent is a little worse for the wear. So… Here's another couple." And finally, one more dive into the mysterious bag. He pulled out a small, rubber device approximately the size of a bar of soap, and handed it to her. She looked at him, clueless.

"It's a life preserver, Bones. Next time you get the urge to throw yourself into the drink – "

She didn't say anything. To her horror, she felt her eyes fill, and quickly looked away.

Her eyes filled immediately. Instead of looking sorry, however, Booth looked as though this was something he had anticipated. He set the item aside. Took her hat off, and tossed it on the floor.

"I hesitated, Booth," she said, no longer able to contain the words she'd been fighting ever since the night Trista was killed. "I waited too long – I saw the wave come, I saw it hit. I knew exactly where she was. But I just stood there."

"Bones, hey, listen to me." He tipped her chin up and forced her to look him in the eye. "You did what you could do. She was gone – I've seen the surf here. The only thing acting quicker might have done was get you killed, too." He looked at her seriously. "And I couldn't take that, Bones. You told me not to be myself – I deserve the same consideration. You did what you could."

She shook her head. "I don't know if I believe that. I just… She was such a good athlete. I saw her go in, and I thought that she would make it out. She would be all right. I never imagined it would be that strong."

His eyes darkened. "The current, you mean? Bones… Jesus, Bones, I'm serious. You can't pull that shit again." He leaned in and gently kissed the scar on her cheek. "You can't save everybody. Trust me. If I've learned anything since I hit the desert this last time, it's that."

The tightness returned to her chest. He put his arms around her. They remained that way for several seconds, not moving, their silence heavy in the room. The clock chimed again. It was two a.m.

"What time will we have to leave in the morning?" she asked.

She felt him hesitate. "By five, probably," he said. His voice was heavy with regret. "You can stay here if you want – I'm pretty sure I can make it back down on my own."

She didn't say anything.

Another few seconds passed before Booth finally sighed. He cleared his throat and pulled away from her. For a moment, she thought she saw tears in his eyes.

"All right, Bones," he said, injecting a lightness to his tone that she suspected neither of them felt, "are you gonna open up the rest of this stuff, or do I have to haul it back with me?"


	6. Chapter 6

The first package was from Parker. It was awkwardly wrapped in several layers of garish pink paper, a crushed bow on one side. When she opened it, she stared at it for some time before she finally looked at Booth, mystified.

"It's a necklace, Bones."

She laughed. "That's quite apparent," she said, holding the thick gold chain up to the candlelight. The pendant was a mysterious, rough-looking grey ball of cooked clay. "I just wasn't certain of the…"

"The thing?" Booth asked. "It's a skull." He grinned. "Parks made it himself. He's been itching to get it to you for a couple months now. Made me promise I'd give it to you."

She tilted her head. Upon closer examination, she could make out two off-center orbits that Parker must have intended as the eyes.

"He made this for me?"

"Face it, Bones, you've got all the Booth men wrapped around those pretty fingers. Pops always asks me about you. And if things don't work out with Padme, I'm pretty sure you're Jared's first choice as second string."

"I don't know – "

"Forget it," he said. "Just… The Booth boys are nuts about you. That's all."

She ran a fingertip over the roughened clay. She'd received cards and little gifts from Russ's girls before, but somehow this seemed more… personal. She pictured Parker's small hands crafting the skull, his brow furrowed in concentration, and swallowed an overwhelming surge of emotion. Seated on the bed with Booth's cargo jacket on and nothing more, she turned her back. Lifted her hair. Handed Booth the necklace.

"Will you…?"

He laughed out loud. "Bones, you don't have to wear it. I mean – c'mon. I love my kid, but this isn't exactly Fifth Avenue fashion we're talking here."

"He made it for me," she said insistently. "I'm certain he would expect me to wear it – why else would he give it to me? I like it. It's very…"

Booth tilted his head, waiting for her to come up with an appropriate adjective. She frowned.

"Just put it on, please?"

He shook his head, but he did oblige by clasping the chain around her neck. When she turned to look at him again, he was grinning.

"You make quite a picture, babe. I wish I had a camera right now."

She glanced down at the pendant nesting between her bare breasts. "I think I'd like to put some clothes on before you start capturing the moment. I'm certain Parker would be pleased I'm wearing his necklace – I just think he'd prefer it if I wore something else with it."

"Not for my kid, Bones. Geez. But once I leave here, I've got another five months in the desert with nothing but this memory and your letters to keep me company. A picture'd be nice."

"I sent you a picture."

He nodded. His smile took on that predatory tinge that made her stomach flip and her blood warm. "Yeah, Bones, you did. But I think I've gotten about all the mileage I'm gonna out of that picture. Especially now." He moved closer, sliding his jacket off her shoulders. Kissed her mandible, then caught her earlobe between his teeth. "Now that I've seen what I was missing all those years, I don't think I'm ever gonna want to see you in clothes again," he murmured.

His hand found its way beneath the sheets. Crept up her thigh.

"Is that one for me as well?" she asked. It took a considerable amount of willpower not to let him continue. The small, simply wrapped box he'd placed at the edge of the bed, however, had caught her attention.

Booth chuckled. Removed his hand.

"Yeah, Bones, that's for you, too." He looked uncomfortable for a moment. "It's not… I mean, it's nothing fancy."

"It's from you?"

He nodded, and handed her the box. The wrapping was a pale green, with a network of vines and flowers that she found quite pretty. Once she'd removed the paper and set it carefully to the side, she stared at the box beneath. It was crafted from what looked to be rosewood, with an intricate design carved along the sides.

"It's beautiful, Booth."

"There's… uh, it's not just the box. I'm pretty sure there's something in there." He was smiling at her. Watching her reaction.

She removed the top, and froze. Nested in tissue paper was a porpoise carved from what she guessed must be iron wood, its smooth body shining in the flickering candlelight. Rather than a chain, it was strung on a fine, strong black cord.

"Booth."

He blushed slightly. Looked down at his hands. "I was in Capetown a couple months ago, and I met this woman. She was a pretty amazing artist, and she… I asked if she thought she could do something. I mean, you know, 'cause you like dolphins. And I figured since it was a deal between the two of us, it was all fair trade - and I made sure she only used stuff that was renewable, since I know that kind of thing's important to you."

This time, the tightening in her chest was accompanied by tears that she couldn't seem to hold back. He looked at her shyly.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it," she said honestly, still struggling to maintain control. "It's… I've never seen anything like it. No one's ever…"

He took it from her hands, gesturing for her to turn so that he could put it around her neck. She took advantage of the moment to try and pull herself together.

"We can put Parker's back in the box, if you want."

She shook her head vigorously, her hand flying to her chest to touch the pendant already there.

"No – put them both on. I'll wear both of them."

His laughter broke the intensity of the moment. "Bones – "

"I'm wearing both of them," she insisted. "I'm never taking them off."

He fastened the delicate clasp of the necklace he'd had made for her without a word. When she glanced down, she had to admit that the combination of the two necklaces was somewhat incongruous. He rolled his eyes.

"You don't have to wear them all the time, Bones. And especially not all at once."

"I want to wear them all the time," she insisted. A memory of Christmases past came to her – all those years when family seemed to be for everyone but her. She looked at Booth, unable to hide the tears in her eyes.

"Thank you, Booth."

He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. For just a moment, she understood the euphemism – it did indeed feel as though time had stopped. When he kissed her this time, everything felt different: softer, slower.

"I – " he started, his mouth at her ear. She pulled back, waiting, but he didn't continue.

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head. He looked frustrated – angry, somehow. "Nothin', Bones. Forget it."

That seemed unlikely, given the look on his face.

"I can't forget it – what were you going to say? Is something wrong?"

"No, Bones – nothing's wrong. Everything's perfect, as a matter of fact. It's just…" He paused. Finally, he ran his hand through his hair, blowing out a long exhale. "Y'know, Angela said I should just keep quiet. 'Go there, screw her brains out, but keep your mouth shut, Booth.' That's what she said. And she's right."

She stared at him in confusion. "When did you talk to Angela about this?"

"Before I came here. And I know she's right, but…" He looked down. His hand fell to her knee, where he traced light circles on her skin. He sighed once more. She felt certain he had just reached a resolution.

"You remember when I got out of the hospital after my coma, when we had our first case afterward?"

"The case with Angela's psychic," she nodded. "Of course. It wasn't actually that long ago."

He laughed humorlessly. "I don't know – sometimes it feels like about six lifetimes to me, Bones." She didn't say anything. When he didn't continue, she stilled his hand on her leg.

"Booth."

He looked her in the eye. "That night in the bar – "

"The night you saw the clown?"

He winced at the memory. "Yeah. That night. But after that, Bones, do you remember what I told you?"

The tightening returned to her chest as she flashed back to that night. Booth was right: it felt like a very long time ago in many ways. But the confusion she'd felt in that moment – that wave of disappointment, near humiliation, as though she was that unwanted teenage girl who never went to prom all over again, misreading words and intentions at every turn. It all came back in a rush. The relief had come later, once she'd had an opportunity to rationalize – of course Booth didn't love her that way. And that was a good thing. Now, though…

She withdrew from him, drawing her knees to her chest.

"I remember."

"I said I loved you," he said.

"In an atta girl kind of way," she said, completing his sentiment from that night. "I already told you I remember."

His eyes looked dark. Troubled.

"I was full of shit that night, Bones. There hasn't been a second in all the time I've known you that I've loved you in an atta girl kind of way. I chickened out, and it's good I did – you weren't ready. Hell, I wasn't ready. I didn't know which end was up after the surgery, and the two of us…"

"But now you do," she said. Her voice sounded strangely formal.

"Yeah, Bones. Now I do. And…" he lifted her chin with his index finger. Looked her in the eye.

The tightness radiated beyond her chest. It climbed her throat. For a moment, despite knowing that she was in perfectly good health, she imagined she might be having a coronary.

"We should go," she said, before he got the words out. She was off the bed an instant later, searching for her clothes.

"Bones," he said.

She shook her head. "No – we should go. You shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have surprised me. I don't like surprises."

Tears began to fall. She kept her back turned to him in an effort to hide them. She couldn't breathe.

"Bones," he said again. He got off the bed.

She kept moving, headed for the living room as she pulled her tank top back over her head. Booth's jacket lay in a heap on the floor.

"Temperance," he said, more loudly this time. He caught her hand just as she hit the threshold, forcing her back to him.

"Talk to me, dammit. Don't run from this." His voice was even. He wasn't shouting, but she saw anger in his eyes. Perhaps frustration.

"This was a mistake," she said. Her heart was beating too quickly; it sounded very loud in her ears.

"What was a mistake?"

She wrenched her arm free. Backed up and stood there with her chest heaving, caught like a trapped animal.

"This – all of it. Coming here. Writing those letters. I wasn't thinking – "

"It's about fucking time!" Booth exploded. "You finally got the message after all this time, Bones – you put your brain in neutral for a while. This stuff that's happening between us, you can't just shove it in some box and put it up on a shelf. I know – God knows I tried long enough."

He took a step toward her. She made no move.

"I told you that night when he talked to Sweets that I can't change."

"Who the hell's asking you to, Bones?" Another step.

"You – " she began. Her eyes were leaking again. She swiped at them impatiently. "I can't give you what you need. What you deserve."

A flash of genuine anger crossed his face. He bridged the distance between them.

"When did I enter into sainthood in your eyes, Bones?" He pulled her to him until their bodies were flush. His eyes raked over her body with such hunger that she imagined he'd left marks with his heat.

"Do you know how many people I've killed, Bones? How deep I hate? How hard I have to try not to slip back into all the shitty legacies my old man left for us? You really think my loving you is some selfless fucking act on my part?"

His hand swept through her hair, coming to rest at the back of her neck.

"The things I dream of doing to you late at night when the rest of the camp's asleep have nothing to do with being a good man." He said. His voice was low. Despite everything that was happening, she felt her body responding to his intensity.

"I'm not a saint, Bones. And I'm not some kid just off the bus – I've been around the block. You think you'd be the first person to break my heart?"

She stood there for a moment, rigid. At a loss. Booth softened. His hand rested on her cheek as he studied her.

"I'm not your parents. I'm not Russ, or however many shitty foster homes you lived through. I'm not Sully. I'm not all those assholes who came before, Bones – all the ones who said the words and stole your heart and turned tail."

Her eyes hardened in an instant. "Oh, really," she asked, her voice venomous. "I'm sorry, I must have misheard when you said we'd have to leave before sunrise so you can go back to deadly, mysterious missions you can't talk about."

She pushed him away, hard, using the wall at her back for added leverage.

"Fuck you," she spit out. Her voice was shaking. She was shaking, advancing on Booth with clenched fists. "Fuck you for coming here. Fuck you for writing the first letter – I was all right here. I was fine. I had my work – "

"You always have your work! Jesus, Bones, when have you not had your work? I'm sorry I fell in love with you. I'm sorry that I spent the first three months in the desert and the last three months in D.C. before we left trying to convince myself that I had it all wrong. Trying to convince myself that just friends was okay, that you and me just weren't gonna happen…"

She turned on him and began stuffing her clothes back in her pack. Booth sat down on the bed. Actually, it was more like he collapsed, actually – as though all the fight had gone out of him.

"I'm sorry I can't promise to live forever, Temperance. But that's life, baby. I love you. And to be honest, I'm pretty sure you love me, too."

She directed a glare at him as she continued to stuff items in her bag. "I don't," she said. The words lacked conviction, however. They sounded childish; she flashed back to that first fight so many years ago. What are you, ten years old?

Booth did not comment this time, however.

"So, you're just gonna take off into the jungle now, Bones? At three o'clock in the morning? I'm suddenly so bad you'd risk cougars and koala bears to get away from me?"

She sat down on the floor. Her shirt was on backwards. It felt as though her bones had gone… boneless. An absurd thought. She realized that she was very tired.

"There are no cougars on this island. Or koala bears."

Booth studied her. "Yeah, Bones. I know."

She swiped at her cheeks and found them wet – she'd been so angry, she hadn't even realized she was crying again.

"I don't want this," she said. She didn't sound particularly convincing on this point, either. "We… It's just not a good idea."

He nodded. He was watching her closely. "Okay."

She got back onto the bed. Curled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Stared at the blankets bunched around the two of them.

"It won't end well."

"Everything ends the same, Bones. It could be a day from now, it could be sixty years. Apart or together, we end the same way. Doesn't mean we stop trying."

His hand curled around her ankle. She felt herself weakening at his touch. His thumb worked in light circles over her fibula. Up her tibia. He paused at her patella. She repeated the names in her head. Closed her eyes, repeating them again. They soothed her in a way that nothing else could. Booth had his saints; she had her bones.

"It feels like a bad idea," she said.

"It just feels, Bones. That's all. And it's scaring the holy hell out of you."

His hand was still on her leg. She put her hand over his, feeling the warmth of his touch. Booth looked at her. Before anything else, she'd fallen in love with his brown eyes – if she was, in fact, in love, which she was unwilling to admit just yet. But his eyes… She had loved his eyes, she thought, for a very long time.

"I don't know if I love you," she finally said.

He nodded. He didn't appear to be hurt by the revelation – or even surprised. "That's okay, Bones. I didn't say it so you would. I said it 'cause I wanted you to know."

"That you love me."

He scratched his neck and looked at her ruefully. "Yeah, Bones. I really do."

The last time they made love, it was different. Slower, the urgency gone. Brennan found herself memorizing every moment: the feel of his stubbled chin as he kissed his way up her back; the taste of his body, sweet and salted and exotic and home; the sounds they made, from whisper to moan to that final cry. They held onto one another when it was over, and, despite everything, in the end Brennan's eyes sank shut. She slipped into sleep with Booth's heart beating strong, steady, in her ear.

They spoke very little on the way back to the camp. Booth had let her sleep later than he should have, so they were running late. He didn't seem overly rushed to get back, however. With another thirty minutes' hike remaining, they saw the helicopter flying toward the island. She watched Booth's face change as he watched the aircraft approach – a shadow of exhaustion, yes, but beyond that was a loathing so deep-seated that she found herself taken aback. She twined her fingers with his.

"I could go back without you," she said. "Perhaps I could say you were sick."

He laughed, the same dark, humorless laugh from earlier. "They don't care if I'm sick, Bones. They only care if I'm dead."

She looked at him in alarm. He attempted a smile.

"Sorry – I didn't mean that. I'm just tired. Just counting the days 'til this year's over."

She nodded. He put his arm over her shoulders. They walked the rest of the way back to camp slowly, but she had the sense that he was no longer with her. Whether his body was there or not, he was already back in the helicopter. Already headed back to the desert.

A young man in fatigues waited for them on the edge of a wide expanse of white sand, where the helicopter waited with its propeller blades still spinning. At sight of Booth, the soldier snapped smartly to attention.

"Good morning, Sergeant Major, sir."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Morning, Hicks. Relax – at ease, soldier."

They had to shout to be heard over the engine. Brennan thought of that day when they'd flown off together after the Gravedigger tried to take him; of the way the helicopter had rocked at the force of the ship exploding on the water below. Of how tightly she'd held on. How grateful she had been for the strength of his arms around her.

Booth turned to her.

"So, this… I probably won't be able to make another trip over here, Bones. It'll just be letters 'til we hit D.C. again."

She nodded. "I know." She attempted to smile, but gave up when Booth's hand ran down her cheek. He leaned in and kissed her, his hand at the back of her neck, her fingers fisted in his shirt.

"I love you, Bones," he whispered roughly in her ear, before they parted. "I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

Another nod. She watched him as he leaned in and said something to the soldier, who smiled and waved lightly to Brennan. They both ducked lower as they ran to the waiting helicopter.

She thought of the movies she'd seen – all those films Angela and Cam were always raving about. This was that moment: she should stop the helicopter. Race toward them, grab Booth and hold him close. Tell him that she loved him. That she'd always loved him.

The helicopter lifted off the ground, hovering for just a moment. She remained rooted to her spot in the sand. Booth leaned out the door as they gained height. She waved to him. He waved back. The wind blew sand into her eyes, her hair flying in all direction. She shaded her eyes with one hand, held her skirt down with the other.

Watched him fly away.

"I love you, too," she whispered to the air. There was no response, of course.

Booth was already long gone.

TBC

_No worries, gang, I'll post the rest of the story tomorrow (September 15) - Thanks for hanging in this far!_


	7. Chapter 7

_As promised, here are the final chaps from Letters From Home - see, I really **can **make deadlines! Well, sometimes... Thanks for the kind words, and if you haven't checked out my website or aren't following my blog, I hope you'll take the time to wander my way. www dot doggedwriter dot com... The more followers I have, the more likely that I'll get a publishing contract; and if I have a publishing contract, I can quit some of those pesky day jobs and just focus on the writing. And, um, the fanfic. See? We all win! Anyway, I'm totally done pimping myself - that's my pitch. Hope you enjoy the story, it truly was great fun to write. _

* * *

When Booth was out of sight, Brennan returned to her tent. She was at a loss as to what to do next. There was work, of course – most of the team was out on the north shore, and she should by all rights be with them. She sat on the edge of her cot. Absently fingered the pendants around her neck – both of them, though Booth made fun of her again this morning.

_You're gonna start a new fashion trend, Bones. I'll have to tell Parks to start making them for everybody. _

She smiled.

_I love you, Bones._

"I love you, too," she whispered again, as though she were telling a secret. She'd said it twice now. Never to him, of course, but it still counted, didn't it? She didn't know if she could say it to him yet, not to his face, but… She'd said it.

When she unpacked her things, she realized that they must have inadvertently put Booth's jacket in his rucksack instead of hers. She knew they hadn't left it at the house, because they had both searched the place thoroughly to make sure they left nothing behind. Changed the sheets. Washed the counters. Removed all traces of their night together.

As though it had never happened.

Her body bore the evidence, however. He'd marked her neck, her breasts, her thighs. She was sore – Booth was not a small man in any way, as it happened.

She had an idle thought that perhaps she might write. Not much, but she hadn't worked on her latest novel since reaching the islands. Brennan got out her laptop. Turned it on. Stared at it for several moments, thinking of her last scene with Andy and Kathy.

She shut the laptop and left it abandoned on her cot. After a moment's thought, she began searching through her things – in her clothes, under her cot, behind the boxes that housed her possessions on the island – for her notebook. By the time she'd found it, the tent looked as though someone had ransacked it. She didn't stop to put things away, however.

Instead, she sat down on the floor of the tent, sand shifting beneath the thin plastic floor, and began to write.

She forced herself back to Kathy and Andy. They felt like strangers; their story had ceased to be interesting to her sometime last year. She wrote a sentence, then a paragraph.

Her publisher had asked when she expected to have another manuscript.

She had yet to answer that e-mail.

She crossed out what she had written.

Flipped the page.

Closed her eyes.

Booth and Bren appeared, with the nightclub and the friends and the alternate universe that had been Brennan's world while Booth was in his coma. She began the story tentatively, but it felt good. She was tired, she reasoned – she'd had almost no sleep, and she'd spent the past seven months working very hard. Just one day, writing whatever she wanted. She would throw it away when she was through. Burn it.

The words she'd written while Booth was in the hospital came back to her. Occasionally, she wished she had not deleted them. It didn't matter that she had, however… She remembered every line.

She wrote on.

Daisy came in late that afternoon; Brennan was still seated on the floor. Still writing. She'd filled a significant portion of the notebook.

"Did Booth leave?" Daisy asked. Her head was tilted, her forehead furrowed in an exaggerated expression of concern.

Brennan realized she must look slightly undone – sitting amidst piles of clothing and crumpled papers, still unbathed. She nodded. Closed her notebook too quickly.

"Yes. He left this morning."

Daisy nodded. Her forehead was still furrowed.

"I'm so sorry. If there's anything you need – "

"Why would I need anything?" she asked. "There's nothing to be sorry about – I knew he was leaving."

Daisy considered this. "See, that is exactly why I love you, Dr. Brennan. You are so wise. But, while I can appreciate the logic of that statement, I have to say… I wouldn't take it this well. I mean, this is me you're talking to – Daisy Wick. I know a little bit about passion, Dr. Brennan. And true love. And now that this long-smoldering romance between the two of you has finally been consummated – it was consummated, right?" barely a beat had passed before she continued, not bothering to wait for Brennan's response. "What am I saying, of course it was consummated. Was it amazing? I bet it was amazing, wasn't it? Oh my gosh, you poor thing. And now Agent Sergeant Booth has gone off to war, and who knows if you'll ever set eyes on him again – "

"I'm writing," Brennan said suddenly.

Daisy stopped. "Excuse me?"

"I'm writing," Brennan repeated. "Working on something – I don't know what, precisely, but I would rather not be taken out of it at the moment."

"Oh," Daisy said. "Well… Dr. Landry was asking whether you would be joining us on the north shore later?"

She considered for only a moment before she shook her head. "I got very little sleep last night." Daisy gave her a look, which she chose to ignore. "I'll rejoin everyone tomorrow."

"Oh. Well… Okay, then. I'm sure Dr. Landry will understand. But if you need to talk…"

"I don't," Brennan said shortly.

Daisy left.

She didn't stop until everyone had returned for dinner. She still smelled like Booth, and sex, and yet she had no desire to bathe. Nonetheless, one did not simply forego basic hygiene because of fatigue. She took a bar of biodegradable soap to a spring toward the center of the island where she often went when she wanted some peace away from the others. She packed her notebook and pen with her, and a change of clothes.

She wished that Booth had not taken his jacket.

The spring water was cool, but far from cold. She found herself thinking of the hot tub the night before. She closed her eyes. Booth had washed her hair.

_I love your hair, Bones. Always have. _

His fingers massaged her scalp. He sat behind her, her back pressed to his chest, his legs parted so she could sit between. She could tell when he was becoming aroused, and the feeling was exquisite.

In her story, Bren was now expecting a child. Fictional Booth said things like, "When the baby comes, we're gonna have to find a place to put him." Instead of solving crime, they decorated a nursery.

Brennan suspected she might be losing her mind.

She bathed away the scent of Booth. Repeated the words again, so softly they could barely be heard.

"I love you, too."

It was a very strange day.

The next morning was better. Her initial thought was that she would like to take more time to write, but she resisted that impulse. Instead, she got out of her cot and got dressed. She thought of the morning before; it seemed odd to think that just yesterday, Booth was with her. He woke her like this:

_Hey, gorgeous._ His mouth had been at her ear, his hand at the small of her back. She was naked, sleeping on her stomach. Booth was kneeling beside the bed. He was already dressed, but when she rolled over and asked him to join her, he didn't have to be asked twice.

Brennan went to the dig on the north shore, wondering if she should e-mail Booth. He had not e-mailed her. She had already checked. Several times, actually.

It felt good to be at the site, and even better to be working. She crouched in the small square area that had been cordoned off, methodically sifting through shallow layers of sediment. The Booth/Bren story continued writing itself.

A plot had materialized while she was writing the day before: an old Army buddy of Story Booth's was accused of murder. Brennan the author was not certain whether or not the man had done it. Bren, the wife and mother-to-be, believed that he had. Story Booth was, of course, convinced of the man's innocence.

"Dr. Brennan?"

She looked up. Dr. Landry was standing over her. The sun was directly overhead; several of the graduate students had left for their midday break.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I asked if you would care to join me for lunch?"

"Oh – of course," she said. She stood and stretched her back. The sun had gotten hotter; her shirt was damp. Her hand fell to the pendants around her neck, a gesture that had become habit in less than two days.

She hesitated. "Actually, if you don't mind… I think I'll take lunch in my tent. I'd like to do some writing."

Landry nodded. "Of course. I will walk you back."

"That would be fine," she said.

Landry informed her of a new find discovered beneath a thin layer of volcanic rock on a smaller island west of their research station. He was very excited – rightfully so, as the discovery could well justify all the expense undertaken to make this expedition possible. They discussed the best way to organize the students. It was decided that they would leave the north shore to Jensen and Melville, and she and Landry would head for the other island in the morning.

"I know that it must be very difficult, having your partner involved in the Afghani conflict." Landry spoke with an Afrikaan accent that she found pleasing – his voice was deep, his words more musical than plain English. "If you would ever like to talk about this – or anything… I am here."

"Thank you," she said. "Perhaps another time."

"Of course. I will see you back at the site, then."

He walked away. Booth had said he was attractive, and he was – it was odd, she thought, that she hadn't noticed it before. The entire time that she'd been here, she hadn't thought twice about another man. She had refrained from telling Booth that Mombatu was the reason she was alive. When she foolishly dove after Trista, Dr. Landry was the one who jumped in and hauled her to safety. He had stitched her cheek, dressed her wounds, his dark eyes watching with concern as she sat trembling on the ledges, still shaking long after she should have recovered from the effects of the cold water.

Her story returned before she could pursue the line of thought any further: Booth and Bren. A murder requiring a solution, an Army Ranger seeking justice. She prepared a plate of fruit and some bread and cheese from the goats the natives kept on the island, and returned to her tent.

After a fight, Story Booth said: "C'mon, Bren, just let go of the logic for a while, huh? I didn't ask what you think about this whole thing – forget what makes the most sense. You talked to the guy. Did he do it or didn't he? Go with your gut for once – what do you feel?"

She tried to recall whether Booth had ever said those words to her in reality. He'd certainly shared similar sentiments. He'd been silent in the cabin, while her legs were wrapped around him and he was buried deep enough that the pleasure was tinged with pain. It was what separated them on the most fundamental level: Booth didn't need to speak to process what he was feeling… He simply felt. She found herself doing the same in his arms. With other lovers she was commanding, explicit in her needs and desires, but Booth seemed to require no direction.

_Just feel, baby. Let go._ Words whispered in her ear, his teeth scraping across her lobe, hand pulling her thigh up higher to change his angle of penetration.

Booth knew what he was doing in bed; there was really no question of that. She found herself wondering where he'd learned the things that he did. Rebecca? Cam? Did he read about them? Or had there been dozens of women he claimed to love, perhaps even believed he loved, before she ever entered his life? She had slept with what she believed was a respectable number of men in the past ten years, and she had studied sexual technique both with these men and by reading extensively on the subject.

Booth made her feel something beyond mere arousal, however. When he touched her, it seemed like more than a physical reaction. When he touched her, it felt as though she were going to come out of her skin, as though her heart might explode. All of the hyperbole Booth had been spouting to her all these years suddenly made sense to her, when his lips were at her neck and he was moving inside her.

She wanted to know how he did that.

She wanted to know if he felt the same, when they were together.

There were a thousand things she wanted to learn about him, about them, now that this change had taken place.

That evening, just as the expedition crew was preparing for dinner, Brennan heard a shout across the camp. One of the students pointed skyward.

A helicopter was flying toward them.

For a moment she just stood there, frozen, as she ran through the possible scenarios for why he would return. Until finally she realized: he wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't.

Which meant someone else…

She ordered her legs to move. Ran across the sand, each step feeling as though she were running toward something she would be so much smarter to escape.

He would not come back.

The soldier who had come for him the day before got out of the helicopter. He carried something in his hands. When he was safely clear of the helicopter blades, Brennan went to him.

"I'm Corporal Hicks, ma'am," he said. He saluted her.

She stood rooted to the spot, blinking the sun from her eyes. "Is there something wrong, Corporal?"

There was a moment's pause, before he seemed to realize what she was asking. He shook his head furiously.

"Gosh, no, ma'am. I was supposed to tell you that first off – I'm awful sorry, I just forgot how pretty you were. Kinda forgot myself, I guess you could say. He's just fine, ma'am. He's headed out tonight, though, and he told me it was a matter of national security that you get this."

"A matter of…?" Brennan stared at the item he held in his hands – Booth's jacket. He pushed it toward her.

"We were headed this way anyway, ma'am," he said in a loud whisper, closer so she could hear him over the helicopter's engine.

She took the jacket from him.

"I think there might be something in the pocket," he said.

"Oh." She couldn't think of what else to say. "Thank you. Will you see him again – later, I mean?"

"No, ma'am – they'll ship out before I get back."

"Ship out?"

He looked alarmed for a moment. She suspected he'd said more than he was supposed to.

"You know where he'll be." It was not a question.

"It's classified, ma'am."

"But it's dangerous," she said. More to herself, really, than him.

"I really can't say, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"Of course." She held Booth's jacket clenched in his hands. It took a significant amount of effort not to ransack the pockets immediately in order to find what he'd left.

It seemed that this would be the logical time for Corporal Hicks to go, but the young soldier made no move. She looked at him expectantly. He looked around for a moment, as though uncertain whether or not someone might be listening, and took a step closer to her.

"Ma'am, Sergeant Booth told me I wasn't to say anything to you. And I know that by going against his direct order, I could…"

"Corporal," she stopped him. "Is there something wrong?"

The man shook his head. "No, ma'am – not what you think. But he put something in that pocket, Dr. Brennan, and I believe there's a reason the Sergeant didn't want this letter going through proper channels. And I also believe that if somehow or other the information in that letter got into the wrong hands, it could mean the end of the Sergeant's military career. If it got into the wrong hands, it could mean the end of the Sergeant's life.

"So," he was talking very fast now, his eyes on the sand at Brennan's feet, hands behind his back. "I'm not saying you don't read it, you understand – not at all. But if something maybe happened to it after… if it were to catch fire, say…"

"That wouldn't be a bad thing?"

He met her eye. "No, ma'am. It would not."

"Thank you, Corporal. I appreciate you bringing this, and for the – "

"Just following orders, ma'am," he cut her off. "Now, I best be going."

She didn't wait until the helicopter was in the air before Brennan had turned and was headed back to her tent, already searching the pockets for Booth's letter.

It was written on torn, lined paper, his handwriting less precise than was typical of him. Brennan sat on her cot and smoothed the letter carefully before she began reading.

_Listen, Bones, I don't actually have much time to get this out – Hicks is breathing down my neck and I've got a dozen guys waiting on my orders. But I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I can't tell you more about what's going on here right now. It feels like I'm trying to hide something from you, and God knows that's the last thing in the world I want. _

_So… I can't tell you anything big, and this is the last time I'll talk about it, but the next couple months are gonna be rocky. We're planning some stuff that's not going to be popular here. I don't know when and I sure as hell can't say where, but I know it'll happen before my year's up. I know I'll be in on it. Once it does happen, though, you might not hear from me for a while. Apparently, I'm not such an old guy they don't want me running ops anymore, and… well, I wish I could say more. _

_I know you, and I know that for you it's sometimes scarier not to know than to just hear it and deal with it the way I know you can. I love you, baby. Please don't doubt for a second that the few hours I had with you the other night was one of the best nights of my life, and I'm looking forward to a hell of a lot more of them. You're everything to me, Bones. Write when you can, and I'll do the same. And whatever you hear about what's happening over here, you keep the faith, okay? I'll make it back to you. _

_Love, _

_Booth_

She put the letter down. With trembling hands, she went through her rucksack until she found her waterproof matches. The flame caught after a moment; Brennan set the burning letter in a plate she'd used for her breakfast that morning. The sides burned, then blackened. The flame intensified and then died out, until nothing was left but a pile of ash.


	8. Chapter 8

After she'd burned his words, Brennan put Booth's jacket on and went back to the dig. She worked, focusing intently on her task, but when work was done, she returned to her tent alone. Retrieved pen and paper, and found a solitary place on the rocks. She wrote.

_Dear Booth,_

_When you first went to Kabul, I devoured every news broadcast I could find. Mainstream, alternative, foreign or domestic. I hadn't heard from you in a month, but I was the most well-informed member on staff with respect to the war in Afghanistan. I'm not certain if there was a precise day that that changed, but somewhere along the lines, it did. I stopped listening, reading, watching. Someone would mention casualties, and I would instantly feel sick to my stomach. _

_I never stopped caring, but I stopped listening some time ago._

_Now, I have the urge to renew my fervor for up-to-the-minute broadcasts. I want to know where you are – though logically I know that having that information would do nothing for either of us. War is… Well, anthropologically speaking, war is inevitable. From the dawn of time, men have fought for dominance – the world is a cruel place, nature even crueler, and it seems that regardless of how many Blackberries or iPads one has, the need for a strong defense against the threat of extinction will remain part of our anthropological make-up. Like any other species on the planet, we are driven to eat, to sleep, to mate, to propagate… To kill or be killed._

_All of this logic does nothing to dull the fear I feel for you, however. I don't believe anything short of holding you in my arms again could dull that. _

_I am not afraid of us any longer – only of losing you. I love you. I've said it aloud a dozen times since you left, making empty declarations to an island that no longer holds you. But there it is: I love you. I am not afraid of that any longer. It feels as though there are other things of which I should be much more fearful at this moment. _

_I received your package from Corporal Hicks yesterday. You should have kept your jacket – what if you need it? I don't know where you will be in the next month, but I have an irrational fear that you won't be warm enough. I'm sure that they will provide you with another jacket, but sometimes it's nice to have clothing that's already broken in. _

_I don't want you to be cold. _

_I wish that…_

_I've been staring at that sentence for the past twenty minutes, but I don't know how to complete it. I don't know what I wish. Or I wish so many things that I don't even know where to begin. _

_When I was a child, my father used to tell me that wishes were a waste of time. That if a person truly wanted something, they shouldn't waste time wishing – they should simply go after the object of their desire. _

_Of course, my father was a bank robber who killed people in the name of family, so I don't know whether it's sound to put that much stock in his advice. _

_I wish this year was over. _

_I don't know what it will mean when it is, however. I don't know what will happen when we return to D.C. Will they still let us be partners, if we continue to date? And do you want to… I suppose you do want to continue to date? Dating seems like a very sophomoric term for us, for what this is, but I'm not certain what else it should be called. Is there a term? If you were here, you would probably say something like, 'What are we, sixteen? It's not dating, Bones, it's…' I don't know how you would finish the sentence, though. Ah, wait. 'It's not dating, Bones, it's love.' That's what you would say. With that arrogant smirk that's been driving me mad from the first day you walked into my life. _

_As far as the dating is concerned, however, I think I would like to do that, when we get home. I would like to go to the Blue Room and dance in your arms, the way we've never truly been able to before. You look very handsome when you're dressed up. I would like to kiss you at the end of the dance, and drink too much wine. At the end of the night, we would drive home and you would walk me to my door. We would kiss with your body pressed to mine, and I would invite you in, and I don't believe we would make it to the living room before my dress was off and you were hard…_

_I would definitely like to date, when we return home. _

_I wish that you were just a fifteen-minute drive away again, just a phone call from being at my door. _

_It's odd that the things I miss most about D.C. are the inane details that seemed so inconsequential when we were there before: arguing in the truck on the way to and from a crime scene; beer at your place at the end of a long day; your steady gaze when I'm uncertain or a case has been particularly difficult. You, standing at my door with coffee in hand first thing in the morning. _

_More than anything, though, I wish that I had told you before you left. _

_I love you too, Booth. _

_I think that's all I have for now. The mail will be leaving soon, and I'd like to get this out. Landry and I will be leaving for another island in the morning, as there's a new dig site we're both quite excited about. I will continue to receive and send mail, of course, but the next week will likely be tumultuous, as we begin to get things settled. _

_I hope that you are well, and safe. I dreamed that I was in your arms again last night, and waking was… Not pleasant. Four months is not such a long time, Booth. Just keep yourself in one piece during that time, and try to refrain from any unnecessary heroics. I promise not to jump into anymore raging surfs if you will do the same. _

_Much love,_

_Bones_

Another month passed before Brennan got her next letter, though Booth took to dropping one-line e-mails every few days:

_Hey Bones, It's hotter than hell and I miss you. Gotta run, just wanted you to know I'm still here. Still alive. I'll write as soon as I get a second. Love, Booth_

or,

_Hey Baby, Had a dream about you last night that'd melt the polar ice caps. Woke up rock hard and cursing this whole fucking place, but those few minutes dreaming you in my arms was pretty sweet… Miss you, Bones. _

She kept her responses equally short, but it felt good to renew the back-and-forth between them to some extent. And, of course, it was nice not to spend weeks at a time obsessing over whether or not he was safe. During that time, she gave up trying to stay away from the news – she listened to every report she could find. Despite Booth's warning, there was no word of escalating conflicts or new developments. Everything seemed reasonably stable, a stalemate in an area of the world where war had become far more common than peace.

She stopped working on the Booth/Bren story. For one thing, life had become substantially busier now that she and Dr. Landry had an entire island to oversee. Beyond that, however, it began to feel strangely as though she were cheating, somehow, by retreating to this fictional world while the real Booth fought in Afghanistan. It seemed more fair to stay rooted in reality; to focus on the discoveries they made and the passing days, the students and the dynamics and… the present, such as it was.

The present without Booth.

The new station had been set up on the second island when his letter came, with Brennan working side-by-side with Mombatu, Daisy, and three other graduate students. It was a more primitive set-up than their primary residence, and mail had to be brought over from the main island by boat. When the letter finally did arrive, she excused herself from the dig early and went to her tent. She sat down cross-legged on her cot, absently fingering the necklaces at her chest as she read Booth's words.

_Hey Baby,_

_Heh. I guess you probably hate it when I call you baby, but you should get used to it. I've been dreaming of calling you that for a damn long time, Bones. I got your letter a couple weeks ago, and I've reread it about a thousand times since then. I kind of hate this right now, because I feel like… well, kind of like some pathetic loser, hanging onto letters from home like they're some kind of salvation. Sometimes, it feels like the stuff I hear from you and Parker and the rest of the crew is the only thing keeping me from going nuts. I know that sounds bad, and I don't want you to worry. I'm okay. But I think war is more a game for kids than grown men – I've been thinking about what you said in your last letter, how war is inevitable and all that garbage. I mean, I guess I know that's true in a way, but I still like to dream of a world where this kind of thing isn't necessary. I still believe in what I'm fighting for, but you'd think people could figure out some way to get along a little better. _

_Maybe all those years working with victim's families, hearing what it's like when you lose somebody… Maybe that's not the kind of experience a guy needs when he's in the thick of it like this. It would be better not to know, I think. I just feel like I'm over here and I spent all those years trying to make amends, trying to even the score or balance the scales or… Whatever, and now here I am again, but they've figured out how to make me a better killer than I was before, because now instead of just killing people myself, I'm training fifty kids at a time to do the same fucking thing. I've never been as good at anything as I am at taking lives. I look at the things you do, and the squints and Angela and Cam, and I wish to Christ I had something like that. Something better than just being great at sneaking up behind a man and pulling a trigger. _

_Anyway, enough about all that crap. Back to the real world. So, what the hell's up with you and the Wombat on a deserted island together? I really did read that book like I said I did when I was there, you know – "The Malay Peninsula." I only understood about a quarter of it, but I think you should give a guy points for trying. So, sure, the Wombat's smart and educated and great looking and he seems nice enough, but… Shit, I forgot my point. _

_Oh yeah._

_I'm pretty sure that guy's got a thing for you._

_I want you to be happy, Bones, I really do. I'd just rather you were happy with me is all. _

_So… Max has a point about wishes, I guess, but it's still a fucked up thing to say to a six-year-old. I've grown to like the guy, but I've got some issues with his parenting techniques. Things'll be different when we have kids. We'll be straight shooters because I know that's important to you, but you've gotta make room for a little magic with kids, Bones. You've seen the way it is with Parker – the universe is a big, wild, messy place. When you have kids, you've gotta learn to roll up your sleeves and embrace the mess. Don't worry – we balance each other out pretty well. You'll make sure our kids know the periodic table and why the sky is blue, I'll make sure they believe in Santa Claus and aren't bound straight for the gates of Hell. _

_As far as wishes go, though, I've got a pretty hefty pile of them myself these days. _

_I wish it was May already, first and foremost – that I'd figured out time travel (maybe you and the squints out there on the Abbadabbadoo Islands can make yourselves useful and work on that, huh?) and you were with me, and we just skipped the coffee cart and went straight to your place. Although a slice of pie from the Diner wouldn't be half bad about now. _

_I wish this war would end. _

_I wish… Hell, I don't know. Maybe your old man was right. Wishes seem like a waste of time right now – aside from the fact that I'm out in the middle of the desert and it's hotter than Hades, I've got nothing to complain about. We've just gotta survive the next few months. Duck and cover – that's my motto. _

_Hey, do you remember last Christmas, when that Santa exploded all over me? I had a dream about that the other night. Not the exploding Santa part, but the other part – where you were undressing me in the Lab. I gotta tell you, Bones, that was pretty hot. You kneeling in front of me, your lips just level with my… Yeah, that was pretty fuckin' hot. _

_Anyway, it was a hell of a good dream. _

_I guess I should go. I don't know what the deal was with that last letter, but there were no presents in there – you've gotta do better than that, Bones. I made a CD, which I know is corny and I might as well be a thirteen-year-old girl for doing it, but I was over at the officer's club a couple weeks ago and I asked the guy over there to do it. I picked the music, of course, but I don't exactly have an ipod at my fingertips over here. No offense, Bones, but your knowledge of classic rock n' roll could use some serious work. I figured I'd help out – we'll definitely be going out to the Blue Room once we're back in D.C., but I wanna take you to some concerts, too. Outdoor concerts, where you wear jeans and your hair in a ponytail and we have picnics in the shade. Have I ever told you how much I love it when you wear jeans? Anyway, if we're gonna do that, you'll need to know the words so you can sing along. _

_I guess I should go. But that thing you said? About being sorry, because you wished you'd said you loved me while I was still there? _

_It's okay, Bones. _

_Once I'm back, I'll make you repeat it about a million times, because I'll never get tired of hearing those three words coming from your pretty lips. But I knew you'd come around – I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm pretty irresistible. It only took five years and me going off to war for you to notice._

_I'm just kidding. I love you too, Bones. Write me as soon as you have a chance – and send me something, damn it. Those pictures we talked about in the cabin would be a good start. Take care, baby. I'll talk to you soon. _

_Love,_

_Booth_

There were eighteen songs on the CD Booth sent. She knew some of them, smiling when she saw Poco and Foreigner on the list, knowing that Booth would refer to the two selections as "their songs." Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Sam Cooke, Ray Charles… She knew all of them, of course. She borrowed Daisy's CD player, feeling exactly like that thirteen-year-old girl Booth had joked about in his letter. She closed her eyes when she reached the sixth selection, imagining Booth singing to her – off-key, admittedly, but she imagined that he would still be quite sexy. "Let's Get it On" – she'd heard that one before. She knew the next selection as well. After he'd made fun of her that night at Founding Fathers for not knowing who Led Zeppelin was, she'd gone home and purchased a significant portion of their collection through itunes. She knew "Whole Lotta Love," and sang along as she cleaned up her tent.

Running a trail around the island later that evening, she listened to the entire CD, then ran the trail one more time, just so she'd have an excuse to listen to it again. Steely Dan, The Black-Eyed Peas, Neil Young, U2, Willie Nelson, The Police… She felt that she'd gotten a glimpse into his world, into his past, and it was strangely exhilarating to think that he'd put so much thought into making something for her.

She returned to her tent, barely acknowledging the rest of the camp, and waited until nightfall before she found a spot on the rocks to write her response.

_Dear Booth,_

_First, I apologize for not sending you something with the last letter. I couldn't think of anything, and I wanted to be sure to get the letter itself out as quickly as I could. You'll note that the envelope is not empty this time – it's interesting that you mentioned the photos, as I had been thinking the same thing. I took them while I was on the beach last week. Actually, Daisy took them, if you can believe it. It was a bit awkward asking, but she didn't seem to think it unusual in the least. She made some rather revealing – and very unwelcome – comments about photographs she's sent to Sweets. It's been a week, and I still can't get the image of the two of them out of my mind. _

_Thank you very much for the CD. Based on your words, I imagine it's quite common to make and trade CDs, but no one has ever made one for me before. I like it very much, and listen to it often. I had actually heard of several of the bands, though – I haven't been living in a barn all these years. _

_I spoke with Angela the other day – she and Hodgins are coming here to visit next week. She said she has some exciting news for me. It was very nice to hear her voice, I have to say. Did you know that I used to be jealous of the two of you? Perhaps jealous is the wrong word, but… Well, I used to be envious of the rapport you two have. I always imagined that if she set her sights on you, everything would have turned out so differently. It wasn't as though it was some bitter rivalry, of course, but occasionally I would wonder: would you kiss her in the rain the way we kissed that night? Did you ever think of her that way?_

_To clarify, that is a rhetorical question. If you did ever entertain notions of kissing Angela, it's entirely understandable and not at all my business. I was not jealous. _

_You should stop referring to Mombatu as the Wombat. He's a very accomplished anthropologist, in whom I have not the slightest romantic interest. I'm too busy worrying over whether or not we're both going to make it back to Washington intact, to start dating anyone else. And I know that you're only trying to get a raise out of me by continually using the wrong name to refer to the Islands, so I won't even dignify that with a response. Except that it's the Maluku Islands, Booth. It's really not that difficult. _

_As for the rest of your letter: If you're a pathetic loser, I'm just as pathetic, because I reread your letters, as well. And wear your jacket everywhere. And I've already listened to the CD you made me at least a dozen times. I replay conversations we've had, moments we've touched, fantasize about what it will be like when we're together again…_

_Yes, I think I'm just as pathetic as you are. _

_You called me baby when I got stuck with that scalpel, during the Avalon case. You probably don't remember; you were very upset, and, I believe, still trying to sort out the difference between your dream and reality. You held me and kissed my hair and called me baby, and for a moment I imagined that we were back in the story I'd written. I wasn't someone who'd been beaten up and shot and stabbed a dozen times over the years, I wasn't someone who fought crime and went home alone every night. I was Bren, like in the story - like you were imagining. I suppose I should, but I don't mind when you call me baby. _

_I remember that Christmas that you mentioned, as well. The thoughts you described were some I had myself in that moment – kneeling in front of you, able to trace your outline, see you stir inside your boxers, regardless of how many saints you may have been reciting. There are so many things that I dream of doing to you; just the thought of them makes me moist. Taking you in my mouth, feeling your cock pressed to the back of my throat… I imagine how good you would taste, how fun it would be to have you at my mercy. You're big – bigger than I imagined, which is saying something, but I'm not without my talents. I believe I could take you – all of you, length and girth – deep enough that you'd be begging to cum. There is an art to a good blowjob, you know – pressure points, rhythm, suction. I've studied it, because you know how important it is to me that I be the best at anything I undertake._

_I'm very good at this._

She stopped writing for a moment, aroused by her own words. When she returned to the letter, she wrote about discoveries on the island, conflicts among the team, the weather and changing seasons. By the time she was finished, she'd written eight pages. She folded them carefully, then returned to her tent to get the photographs Daisy had taken. She'd had to wait until no one was around to print them out on the expedition's old printer; now, she stared at them uneasily. Most of their photos were developed off-site, but – for obvious reasons – she had not felt comfortable doing that.

They were tasteful, at least. Rather than wasting any more time evaluating the half-dozen pictures, she tucked them into the envelope with the letter. Sealed it, addressed it, and sent it on its way.

Jack and Angela arrived by boat a full month later than they said they would. It had been five weeks since Booth's last letter. No news of escalating fighting in Afghanistan, but there likewise was no news of imminent peace. She'd gotten a message from Booth three weeks before, saying that he would be away from e-mail indefinitely.

She did not care for that word, "indefinitely." It felt far too… indefinite.

But then, Jack and Angela arrived. Laughing and full of news, an intimacy about their exchanges that made Brennan miss Booth more than ever.

"The little one hates flying," Angela said as they climbed off the boat.

"You know I hate it when you call me that, pumpkin," Jack said.

"Who knew squints could be so funny," she said dryly. She gently lifted the blanket from the tiny bundle she was carrying. Blue, blue eyes blinked open, then squinted up at Brennan.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me," Brennan protested as soon as she'd processed what she was seeing. "And Booth knew?"

"I made him swear not to say anything. Don't be mad at him – I just wanted to see your face when you met your brand new goddaughter."

"She's beautiful, Ange," Brennan said. And she was – dark hair and tiny bow lips, pudgy arms waving futilely. "How old is she?"

"Nine weeks – she's a New Year's baby, or nearly. She was a little early. On all counts. I thought baby-making was what Paris was supposed to be for, but…"

"You were already pregnant when you got there?"

"Apparently, Charlotte was conceived on our wedding night. One time without a Trojan, and it was sayonara to our morning-sickness-free year abroad in the City of Lights." Angela tilted her head as she looked at the infant. "She is beautiful though, isn't she?" she asked softly. "This little one's gonna be a heartbreaker."

"Unh uh," Jack said, looking just as smitten as Angela. "This little one's gonna be a nuclear physicist, with thick glasses and a chastity belt." His words were spoken softly, in a sing-song cadence to avoid disturbing the baby.

Brennan couldn't take her eyes from the child.

"Do you want to hold her?" Angela asked.

"May I?"

"Sure. It's great the first few days – and it's still great, don't get me wrong, because…" she smiled, her eyes lightening as she gazed at the baby again, "Well, because she's gorgeous and sweet and perfect and everything, obviously. But, still, do you have any idea how much crap you need to carry with you for something this small? Trust me, I'm grateful whenever somebody wants to take her for a while."

Brennan let Angela settle the baby in her arms. She fussed for just a moment, but Brennan walked her gently up the pier to the island; the motion soothed her in seconds. The new parents followed close behind, weighed down by their supplies. They talked non-stop, Jack inquiring enthusiastically about their findings on the expedition, while Angela exclaimed over the exotic views and brilliant tropical colors all around them. By the time they sat down for dinner with the rest of the crew, Brennan was so grateful to have her friends with her again, she didn't even want to think about the moment when they would leave.

Jack and Angela seemed to have no clear idea of when that would happen, however. They had their own tent, which they set up next to the one Brennan was sharing with Daisy. Mombatu was anxious to have an extra hand to help out, as they had never replaced Trista, and so eagerly accepted Jack's offer of assistance once he learned of the scientist's credentials. Angela spent her days sketching and wandering the island with Charlotte; when they returned in the evenings, the two would be waiting with dinner and stories of their adventures.

A week passed, with still no word from Booth. Evenings, they sat outside with Charlotte and watched the sunset over the water. Brennan focused on the present – on the fact that she was surrounded by friends in a beautiful place, doing work that she loved. It wasn't easy, though; particularly since Angela seemed bent on steering every conversation to her future with Booth.

"You're a natural, Bren," Angela told her on one such evening, when Charlotte was snuggled contentedly in Brennan's arms. "You're just gonna have to get one of your own – and you best get started pretty quick, too. I want our babies to grow up together."

"That may be difficult."

"Oh, I don't think it'll be that difficult," Angela informed her with a mysterious smile. "I'm pretty sure Booth started picking out place settings the day he met you. And now that you guys are on the same page…"

"We're dating," she said firmly. It made no sense to her why everyone was so intent on skipping over what she felt was a very pleasant phase of the relationship. Except, of course, for the part where the man she was in love with was fighting a war far from her and she hadn't heard from him in six weeks. "We have no idea what will happen when we return to Washington, assuming everything goes smoothly."

"Well, I have a feeling things are gonna move pretty fast once you get back to D.C., sweetie. You just enjoy the solitude while you can." The artist studied the picture of her sleeping daughter in Brennan's arms with a soft smile. "I've gotta tell you, Bren, I'm pretty amazed at how well you're handling things. If that was Jack over there fighting, I'd be…" she shivered. "God, I can't even think about it. How are you not going nuts?"

She considered the question for a moment before she met Angela's eye. "I am," she admitted reluctantly. "Not – I mean, that sounds very dramatic. I don't mean that. But I just… I'm just trying not to think about it. I do my work, which I love. I have you and Jack and Charlotte here, and I enjoy the people I'm working with. If I work hard enough, I can forget about the fact that I haven't gotten a letter from Booth in forty-six days. I haven't seen him since Christmas day, and now it's mid-March."

Angela bit her lip. "Have you heard anything at all? E-mail, phone, carrier pigeon?"

She shook her head. "His last e-mail was at the end of February. He said I might not hear from him awhile."

"And not to worry," Angela guessed. Brennan nodded wordlessly.

"Hey, dinner's up," Jack shouted to them from across the beach, before they could continue their conversation any further.

Brennan handed Charlotte back to Angela, who reached over and impulsively and hugged her best friend.

"He'll be okay, sweetie. If he's not, I swear, my faith in happily ever after will be shattered forever."

"Thanks, Ange." She rolled her eyes, brushing away the tears that had unexpectedly appeared. "I'm so glad you're here."

That evening at dinner, when the talk turned inevitably to the war in Afghanistan, Brennan tried not to listen to reports of the bombing of a U.S. military base in Kandahar. Tried not to think of the fact that she knew from that first conversation with Corporal Hicks that Booth was likely no longer in Kabul. He would be deeper in the center of the action; Kandahar made sense, given what little she knew about what he was doing.

Daisy was in the middle of a diatribe about the dangers of waging a war among a nation whose hatred of the U.S. ran as deep as it did in the Taliban, when Angela cleared her throat. She looked pointedly at Brennan.

"Hey, um, Daisy? How about we talk about something a little bit cheerier, huh?"

Daisy followed Angela's line of sight, and seemed to notice Brennan for the first time.

"Oh my gosh – of course, I'm so sorry, Dr. Brennan. I'm such a Loose Lips Lucy, I don't know how you guys put up with me. I'm sure Agent Booth is fine."

Despite the fact that the conversation turned to more pleasant topics after that, Brennan excused herself after a few minutes. She went back to her tent and lay down on her cot with Booth's jacket. Daisy had told her she could keep the CD player for as long as she wanted; she put the headphones on now, and skipped it to the latter half of the disc, which was slower than the first half. She closed her eyes when Ray Charles began singing "Come Rain or Come Shine."

"Please be all right," she whispered to the air.

Predictably enough, the air had no response.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Booth's next letter arrived two days later – exactly forty-eight days after his last one. Jensen himself made a special trip from the main island to deliver it to her, and Brennan didn't even remember to say thank you until she was already halfway across the beach, headed back to her tent. She zipped the door closed behind her and sat on her cot, her stomach clenched into knots. It was dated March 7 – a week ago. A week ago, he was still all right.

She opened the letter.

_Dear Bones, _

_I'm sorry it's been so long since you heard from me last. I haven't had much time to myself for the past few weeks, and we've been on the move a lot. It's hard to write sweet nothings to the woman of your dreams when you're trapped in a jeep for a week at a time with six eighteen-year-olds who don't know their ass from their elbow. I've finally got a tent to myself for the night, though, so I figured I'd take a little time to write to you before we bug out again. _

_I'll start by answering your last letter, which… Wow. I saw those pictures you sent, Bones, and my faith in God was restored. I swear, something as beautiful as you doesn't just happen by accident. Daisy took those, huh? She's got a good eye. I'm not crazy about the fact that she knows you're sending me pictures like that, but the trade-off is worth it, I guess. Damn, Bones. You took my breath away the first time I saw you, and you're still doing it six years later. _

_Then I read your letter and Jesus, Bones, you've got me sprung like a 16-year-old again. I appreciate a good blowjob as much as the next guy, but up until that letter I've always been a little more partial to actual, Honest-to-God sex –as in, me buried just as deep as I can get, you screaming my name. Now you've got me rethinking that. Before we go that route, though, I want to taste every inch of you, want to feel you in my arms, those gorgeous legs wrapped around my waist and that tight…. Christ. I haven't jerked off this much since Suzie Morris started wearing her cheerleader uniform to study hall freshman year._

_Anyway… I'm glad Angela and Jack are there, but that thing you said in your last letter – about being jealous of me and Angela? Bones, I don't think another woman really existed for me after that kiss outside the bar, on that first case together. I never would have dated Angela. I like her, don't get me wrong – she's hot, she's funny as hell, and she's got your back in a way that'll always make me love her. But, Bones, it was always pretty hard to see anybody but you in that lab. Even when I was dating Cam, it was this weird thing at the end of the day, like I was cheating on one of you, and I couldn't even figure out which one half the time. You're the one for me, Bones. Nobody else even holds a candle. _

_And I remember the night I called you baby, too. Jesus, how could I forget? You've got blood gushing out of your arm and you're shaking like a leaf, you scared the crap out of me. But there wasn't any doubt who you were – I wasn't confused, Bones. I wasn't flashing back to some alternate reality. You were in my arms, bleeding and scared. You, Bones. My partner, the woman I'd just finally admitted I was head over heels for. There wasn't a thought in my head that it was anybody but you and me in that doctor's office. _

_I'm glad you like the CD I sent. I wasn't sure you had a player over there. I have another bunch of songs I want you to hear, but we'll save those for when we're back in the states. Some of my biggest fantasies these days are just of the two of us hanging out at your place or mine, barefoot, dancing around on the carpet listening to great music, drinking great beer, making love 'til the sun comes up. Promise me you'll set some time aside for that when we get back, okay? We'll have plenty of time to dig up dead bodies and hunt bad guys, but there are other things that are important, too. And I'm one of them, damn it. _

_I heard from Rebecca the other day – she says Parker's having some trouble in school. Getting in fights, grades are falling, that kind of thing. I think maybe a year's a little longer than he thought it was, when he was first telling me I should go. It sure feels a lot longer to me. Two more months and we'll be back – I wrote to him today and told him he better straighten up or I'm coming back there to kick his butt. We'll see if that works. _

_Nothing big in this month's letter – just a desert flower that blooms around here. Everything else is sand and destruction, but then all of a sudden you see these gorgeous blooms out in the middle of nowhere. It makes me feel the way you make me feel – like there's hope, like there's this piece of… redemption, and beauty, and if I can just hang on a little longer, I'll see that again. Anyway, it's just a flower. _

_I love you, Bones. I know there was a long break in between this letter and the last one. There might be a longer one this time out. That thing Hicks delivered to you, I don't know if you remember, but… Well, things are pretty busy. You talked about not following the news, and I think maybe that's a good idea right now. Two months, baby. Just gotta make it through two more months. _

_Please remember that I love you, no matter what. _

_Always,_

_Booth_

She stared at the letter for a very long time. It was still early in the afternoon – just a little after twelve o'clock. Angela was sitting in the sand, nursing Charlotte while the water washed over her bare feet. Brennan considered writing her response then, but realized that she didn't know what to say yet. And writing the letters in daylight, when everyone else was around, felt odd – less intimate, somehow. She returned to the dig.

That evening there was a dinner that ran late. She tried to write before bed, but her thoughts were scattered; all she could think about was his reference to the letter Hicks brought her. Something was happening – or it was about to happen. Did he really think she could just stop listening to the news, stop wanting to know what was happening to him?

She wrote her response the next morning, early, before the rest of the camp was up. Booth's jacket, rolled up to the elbows, was draped over her shoulders.

_Dear Booth,_

_The sun is rising over the water as I write this. I had a dream that woke me, and wasn't able to get back to sleep. That night we spent together in the circus – do you remember that? I had a bad dream that night, and woke to find your arms around me. You didn't say anything, but I thought perhaps you weren't really sleeping, when I awoke. I know I should have said something, should have gotten up or put some distance between us, but it was so dark, so late, and… It felt good, Booth. Even then, it felt good to be in your arms. For as long as I've known you, it's felt good to be in your arms. _

_Jack and Angela arrived two weeks ago. You "forgot" to mention the addition to their family (I used quotation marks there because I know that you did not in fact forget at all, but that Angela asked that you keep it secret. Now that you and I are involved romantically, however, I feel it is only fair that you refrain from keeping such secrets in the future. Angela informs me that this is one of the "perks" of being your girlfriend – all information is, of necessity, filtered through me first. No more secrets.) _

_At any rate, Charlotte is stunning. She's so tiny. Jack was not in favor of making the trip here, and I suspect you would not be thrilled yourself, but I like the idea that they are making travel and immersion into other cultures a priority for their child. If I have a child myself, I like to believe I will do the same. Sometimes, I think about you and I… About a child with your eyes and your smile, and I wonder whether our priorities would align enough to be successful parents, or if we would be constantly at odds. _

_Charlotte smiled at me yesterday. I know it's possible it was a gas bubble, but I'm quite certain it was not. This part of motherhood seems very simple to me – Angela says it's dull. Not in a disparaging way, of course. She says it with a light in her eyes, with a giant smile. She has time to paint and wander the island with Charlotte nestled close to her. I could do it, I think – have a baby, and still keep working. I'd want to take some time off, of course, but I could do a great deal of my work from home. Not that I'm thinking seriously about any of it, of course. It's just idle thoughts. _

_I don't know what's happening over there. Which, I suppose, is the point of having covert operations, but the past month has been… difficult. This is not a situation I wish to repeat, ever again. You talked in the letter before this last one about what a difficult time you are having, and ever since I sent my response I've worried over the fact that I did not address that, I didn't try to make you feel better. I'm not good at making people feel better, Booth; half the time, I only seem to make them feel worse. But I worried that you thought me insensitive, that I offended you and that was why so much time had passed before I heard from you again. That, of course, was preferable to the alternative, which was that something had happened to you and no one had thought to notify me. _

_So, here is my attempt to make you feel better. _

_From the time I have known you, I have seen how much weight this job puts on your shoulders. I can't believe that you ever approached the loss of life casually, but now that you are older I suspect you have begun to see those shades of gray that life experience invariably reveals. War is, of necessity, a matter of black and white for the soldiers who fight it: I can understand that. I understand black and white far better than you; over the years, you were the one who taught me that there exists in the world a whole spectrum of grays. _

_These are all truths, and you know that they are: every story has two sides. Every soldier who dies, regardless of the side on which he or she fights, leaves someone behind who will mourn. For every peace that we make, another conflict will arise, somewhere on the planet. _

_Please, Booth, now accept these truths as well, with no less value or weight than the others:_

_You are a good man, Seeley Booth. The best I've ever known. You are saving those soldiers' lives; you are serving the country you love; you are doing what you can to help our cause so that we might expedite the peacekeeping process and return our soldiers to their loved ones safely. _

_What you are doing is important, and I am so proud to call you my partner, my lover, my friend. You are very good at what you do, but firing a gun is the very last thing the people who love you consider as your best quality. I should have said those things sooner, Booth. I do love you, so much. _

_Charlotte just woke up – I can hear her crying in the next tent. Jack and Angela are very good parents. They are talking about staying until the end of the expedition – Mombatu is very pleased to have Jack working with us, and we can certainly use the help. I must admit, I hope that they stay. I know that what I'm experiencing is nothing compared to you, but it is lonely. I miss home._

_I miss you._

_As I said before, I don't know what's happening there, but I feel compelled to reiterate the pleas I've been uttering for nearly a year now: please be careful. We're so close to being home. Today is March 12th. Two more months, Booth, and we're home again. It's senseless for me to tell you not to be a hero, because it seems that's part of your very nature; but please don't go looking for trouble. Don't volunteer for things you don't have to. Just be safe, Booth, and write again soon. I love you. _

_Love,_

_Bones_

She returned to her tent and included pictures of Charlotte, Angela, and Jack, along with several photos Angela had taken of her napping with Charlotte in her arms. They weren't erotic by any means, but she suspected that Booth would like to see them, regardless. She sealed everything and put it in an envelope just as Daisy turned on the satellite radio.

And, suddenly, it became clear why Booth had warned her not to listen to the news.

She dropped the letter on the floor of the tent, nearly tearing the fabric as she struggled to unzip the mesh door and raced to find Angela and Jack.

"I'm just trying to find out the names of the soldiers who were taken," Brennan insisted, for what must have been the nineteenth time that day.

She'd been bumped from one bureaucrat to the next in the state department for the better part of the past two hours. They were in the communications tent on the main island; it felt as though she'd been there for days. A few feet away, she heard Jack having a similar conversation with one of his contacts. Angela was walking outside in sandals, her skirt flying behind her, rocking Charlotte in her arms. The baby had been fussy all morning – Brennan suspected she could sense Angela's fear.

"No, my partner – I'm a forensic anthropologist with the Jeffersonian Institution in Washington, D.C. Master Sergeant Seeley Joseph Booth of the FBI; I believe he was one of the three soldiers who was abducted outside Kandahar."

There was a pause on the line; she thought she'd been placed on hold again. When the woman spoke, her voice was hushed, as though she was trying not to be overheard by those around her.

"We are still uncertain on the details of that incident at this time, ma'am. We can't give out information on any of the soldiers who are missing."

"But I just need to know if he's one of them – there are many soldiers there, it's very possible it wasn't him."

Except that she didn't think that was true – not really. She'd heard the reports of what had happened: a high ranking member of the Taliban with strong ties to Al Quaeda had been assassinated in the night. U.S. Special Forces were suspected. The next morning, three U.S. soldiers were spotted attempting to leave Kandahar, where the assassination had taken place. A helicopter was waiting for them. Someone inside the chopper had reported a problem; gunfire was exchanged. The men were pinned down before they could get away, and two non-military, unidentified vehicles came and took the American soldiers at gunpoint. The helicopter was shot down as it attempted to make its escape; the pilot and two other soldiers lost their lives as a result.

No one knew anything further.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, unless you're family, there's no information I can give you about Master Sergeant Booth at this time."

"But if I was family," she said immediately, her chest tightening, "there would be news to tell – is that what you're saying? There would be news that he was one of the men taken hostage."

"I'm sorry, ma'am." The woman's voice was gentler this time. "Maybe you should call his family. They'll have the news soon."

It took some effort to hang up the satellite phone; she was trembling violently. Jack looked at her. At the expression on her face, he hung up and went to her, his hand at her elbow.

"Dr. B, have a seat, okay?"

There were other people buzzing around the station, everyone talking at once. Mombatu handed her a glass of water that she didn't drink. Her eyes were still focused on Jack.

"Did you find out anything?"

He looked uncomfortable. She refused to look away, even when his eyes filled.

"Is he dead?" she asked. The words came out so softly she was afraid no one had heard her.

"They don't know," Hodgins said. "Nobody knows much of anything right now."

"But he was one of the soldiers who was taken."

He nodded, ever so slightly. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry. I've got the word out, and I've got some pretty good sources. They'll do what they can to keep us informed."

"I should call Rebecca." She made no move to retrieve the phone.

Two different radios were giving two different reports with the same basic information, on opposite sides of the tent. It was very warm, the air stagnant and sharp with the smell of too many people under too much stress in an overly small space.

Mombatu took her arm and gently pulled her to her feet. "Come. We can get some air, while Jack continues to speak with his sources. If there is any news, I suspect someone will contact you from the U.S."

She nodded, but did not move from her spot. Angela stood at the door, bouncing the baby gently.

"Bren," she said quietly. "Come on, sweetie. Come outside. Jack will tell you as soon as he hears anything."

She followed Mombatu outside. Charlotte blinked her blue eyes at her; she thought of baby Andy all those years ago. Of sitting in the back of an SUV talking to Booth, the feel of his leg against hers, his smile, his dumb jokes, their laughter.

"He's gonna be okay, Bren," Angela said softly.

Brennan shook her head, focusing on the horizon.

"You don't know that," she said. Her eyes were dry. "No one knows that."

"Goddammit, I'm not asking for the codes to our nuclear subs, I just want to know if anybody's gotten any demands," Jack shouted.

It had been fifteen hours since Brennan had heard the first report; Jack was still on the phone. For some inexplicable reason, she'd insisted that the letter she'd written that morning go out with the day's mail. They'd looked at her as though she was someone to pity, someone for whom logic was obviously long forgotten, but they had taken the letter.

Jack scrawled something on a piece of paper in front of him. Brennan looked at it, but couldn't make out his handwriting. The rest of the crowd inside the comm tent had dispersed – Mombatu, Jensen, and Jack remained. At Brennan's insistence, Angela had taken Charlotte back to the camp.

As soon as Jack hung up, Brennan started to ask him what he learned – he held up a hand, and she fell silent as he called someone else.

"Yeah, Nikki, Jack Hodgins. Listen, I'm trying to get a little info on the hostage situation with the three soldiers in Kandahar this morning – "

His face fell – Brennan saw it just before he turned away from her and ran a hand through his curly hair. When he spoke again, he lowered his voice.

"You're sure?" he asked. Another interminable silence. "Do they know which one it was?"

Brennan was wearing Booth's jacket. She thought of the first time they'd buried him – or nearly buried him. The way his jaw felt when her fist connected with it at his supposed funeral, just how much that punch had hurt. She thought of him lying in a hospital bed, how many times now? Shot, punched, blown up, a tumor in his brain… She brushed away her tears, and forced herself to focus on the conversation Jack was having.

He hung up after another minute or so, and stood there for a moment. When he turned, there were tears running down his cheeks. Before Brennan could ask anything, he shook his head.

"It wasn't him," he said hoarsely. "One of the three guys – they found him. He'd been… He was dead. Booth and the other guy are still alive. The kidnappers have demands."

"Get our troops out of Afghanistan," she guessed. Jack nodded silently. "Free… someone that the U.S. military would never dream of setting free. Money, weapons, support that we'll never give."

"The U.S. doesn't negotiate with terrorists," Jack said. She nodded. She felt sick.

"What about other avenues?" she asked. She'd done research on Kidnap & Ransom specialists before. Jack would be the kind of person who might have those contacts.

He shook his head, wiping away his tears with what she expected was some embarrassment. She hadn't shed a tear since this began, but Jack didn't seem to have that problem.

"I'm looking into it," he said. "I don't think it'd work, though – not for this. Booth's military; it's different for them."

"Do you think someone's trying to get him back?" she asked. She thought of the lengths she'd gone to the last time Booth was taken, racing around in a panic while the clock counted down the seconds. But at least she'd been able to do something that time.

Now… She didn't even know where to begin.

"He's a hero, Brennan – he's done a hell of a lot for the country. They're not gonna just kiss that goodbye without a fight."

Mombatu came over then, studying her. "You do not look well – have you eaten?"

She shook her head. "I can't eat right now." She turned to Jack. "Can you call someone else to find out whether or not they're considering the ransom demands? Do we even know…" her voice faded. "Do we know…" Her insides twisted. The room turned sideways. She stumbled, rushing for the door, and barely made it outside before she lost the scant contents in her stomach on the jungle floor.

Mombatu followed her outside; Jensen and Jack remained inside, standing in the doorway. Watching the proceedings. Mombatu crouched beside her, his large hand holding back her hair.

"Temperance, I would like you to come with me to the beach. Angela has some food waiting. Jack will tell you if there is any news."

She shook her head, but the anthropologist took her elbow firmly and guided her away.

"It is not up for negotiation. You need food. And rest would not be a bad thing – did you sleep last night?"

The dream from the night before came back to her – flashes, nonsensical images with Booth at the center.

"I'm all right. I can walk on my own."

He released her arm, but she noted that he continued to walk close beside her, watching her, until they had returned to the beach. Sure enough, Angela was waiting when they got to the other tents. The smell of food turned Brennan's stomach; she stood by in silence as Mombatu whispered something to Angela – Brennan assumed he was telling the other woman what had just happened at the comm tent.

He excused himself, polite as ever, and suddenly it was just the two women on the beach. She didn't know where the rest of the students had gone – were they at the dig? It was dark… Night. It hadn't even occurred to her that it was late. They were sleeping, she realized. Everything seemed upside down. Time made no sense.

"Brennan," Angela said. Brennan realized suddenly that the artist must have said her name at least twice before. She looked up.

"You look like hell, sweetie."

"I'm tired."

Angela nodded. She was studying her – searching her face for something, but Brennan wasn't certain what.

"I'm all right – I just need to know he's safe. They should have let me stay in the tent, in case there was news. Or…" She trailed off as a thought struck her. Without completing her sentence, she turned her back on Angela.

"Or what?" Angela asked. Brennan didn't answer, too busy thinking. A hand caught her arm and turned her around; she faced her friend.

"You can't go find him, Brennan," Angela said. Her dark eyes were filled with tears. "This isn't like at home, when some psycho has him and you rush in and save each other and you both ride off into the sunset."

"He did it for me," she said. Her voice sounded raw. Angela looked at her questioningly. "When I was upset, when I was hurt… It didn't matter that he was fighting a war. It didn't matter that I was on a different continent, or that I told him back in Washington that I didn't feel that way about him." Tears began to fall. "It never matters to him – none of it. If I'm in danger, if I'm alone, no matter the circumstance, he comes for me."

"Sweetie," Angela brushed the hair from Brennan's forehead, "you can't help him right now. I know it's not exactly your strong suit, but right now... Right now, you just have to wait. You have to stay here, and keep eating, and keep breathing, and you have to believe that he'll be okay."

Brennan shook her head. "That's absurd. He would never do that, if it was me – regardless of what anyone else said, or how many people were telling him it was hopeless, he would do anything…" Her voice broke. She swiped at her tears. "I can't just sit here, and believe…"

Angela hugged her tightly. "You can. And when you have trouble with it, that's what you've got me for. There's nothing you can do, Brennan."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Forty-eight hours passed. A videotape was released on Al Jazeera: two soldiers in filthy fatigues, their faces bruised almost beyond recognition.

Brennan recognized one, though.

Mombatu walked her back to the tent that afternoon, after she'd watched the tape online. The dig was going on without her on the opposite island. She couldn't stop picturing Booth's face. The lighting was poor, but it appeared that he had abrasions on his forehead and the right side of his face, just above the zygomatic arch. He was kneeling, his hands bound behind his back. The room in which he was being held was bare and nondescript. Booth stared straight ahead, without expression. She could not tell the extent of his injuries.

"He is alive," Mombatu said, in his deep, soothing voice. "You must focus on that fact – he is a strong man who means a great deal to the American military. They will take care of him. Meanwhile, you must take care of yourself."

Now, she felt Mombatu's eyes on her, watching her for signs of weakness or fatigue.

"I wish people would stop saying that. I'm fine," she said.

It was midday. The water was clear, the sun shining. She had not been back to the other island, not set foot at a dig site, since first learning of Booth's capture. She spent whole days on the telephone or the computer, trying to glean any information she could about what had happened, trying to determine whether or not there was some way she could use her money or influence to get him back.

Thus far, no one had offered any indication that there was anything she could do.

"You don't look fine," Mombatu informed her. "Temperance…" She looked at him. He nodded toward a chair, indicating that she should sit.

Once she had, he pulled his own chair closer to her.

"It is a difficult time," he said. This seemed a rather obvious statement, and one that required no response. She remained silent.

"Perhaps it would be better for you to return to America – "

"I'm fine, Mombatu," she repeated firmly. "I'm not going back without – " she stopped, her voice strangled for just a moment. "I don't want to go back right now. I want to stay here." She stopped. Dug down deep, searching for the strength that had gotten her through a great many things over the years, all by herself. She could do this. "I want to go back to work. Please. I would like to go back to the dig."

A moment of silence passed, before Mombatu met her eye. He smiled at her sadly.

"In Kenya, where I am from, my father was a soldier. My brothers were soldiers. I was younger than them. I went to school while they waged war. I read books while they trained their bodies to fight.

"My father would say, 'Mombatu, you are no fighter. Your mind is occupied with greater things than killing.'

"Shortly after they were taken – my three brothers and my father, my cousins… many of the men in my village, all at once – I returned to school. The teacher was American. She said to me, 'How can you come here? How can you keep working, when you do not know this outcome?' And I said to her, 'I do not need to know this outcome. I am not a fighter. But I know what my family was fighting for.'"

His hand rested on her knee as he studied her for a moment.

"Sergeant Booth fights for you. He fights for the future that he imagines for the two of you. You are not a soldier; you are a great mind, and a great woman. If the work helps – if you can continue responsibly, without endangering your own health – I would consider it an honor to continue working at your side."

She sat perfectly still, her eyes focused on the horizon.

"What happened to them?" she asked. She could not bring herself to look at him. "Your family – your father and brothers."

"I think you know," he said quietly. "In Africa, there is no one to come to the aid of poor soldiers from poor villages."

"They died."

"They died," he confirmed. "And yet, I live. I work, I breathe, I love. And so do you. And your Sergeant Booth is not a poor soldier from a poor village."

She nodded. A few more seconds passed. Mombatu stood.

"We will return to our island tomorrow morning. The students can use our assistance."

"I'll be ready," Brennan said.

She watched him walk away, then returned her gaze to the water. An image of Booth returned to her: beaten, bloodied, kneeling in silence. She pushed it away. There were too many other images for that one to remain: Booth, smiling at her, shouting at her, rolling his eyes at some comment she'd made. Booth holding her, dancing with her, working beside her late into the night. Booth with Parker in his arms, driving to a crime scene, laughing out loud.

"I'm ready," she said again. She stood, returned to the temporary quarters she'd inhabited for the past two days, and packed her things.

Compartmentalizing was not as easy as it had once been. To remain on the islands, sifting through layers of sediment while someone else knew where Booth was, how Booth was, was one of the most maddening things she had ever done.

"There is nothing you can do, Temperance," Mombatu told her in his soothing baritone.

Four days had passed since she'd first learned of Booth's capture. She had never heard that phrase so frequently in her life, as she had over the past few days: There's nothing you can do. Days, she went back to the dig site on the other island. She worked, trying to quiet her mind. Nights, she returned to the main island with Jack and Angela. She lay in her cot and stared at the canvas roof, listening to the jungle sounds outside. She waited for news. Now, she and Mombatu were seated on the rocks, looking out over the still sea.

"I don't believe that," she said. "There must be someone I can call – a ransom that I could pay. I have the money. What good is it to have this money, if I can't help him?"

"Money you would be giving terrorists for bombs and ammunition? I am not certain your Sergeant Booth would find this a favorable solution."

"I don't care," she said immediately. "I don't care if he never spoke to me again, if he never forgave me… At least he would be alive."

It was a childish thing to say – and untrue, as well. She knew that what Mombatu was saying was true; it was the reason she had done nothing before this. Over the past four days, Brennan had visualized every situation – not out of her imagination, not merely fantasies she had manufactured from thin air, but scenarios that she knew were likely. Probable, even. She had been an anthropologist for far too long not to know the horrible things human beings did to one another.

At night, sometimes she heard Charlotte crying in the next tent. Angela liked to do 2a.m. feedings with the baby outside in the moonlight. On the fifth night, Brennan came out to find her friend standing barefoot in the sand, her child suckling so hungrily that Brennan could hear her. She ached at the sound, somewhere so deep she imagined it would always be impossible to reach.

Angela looked up and smiled serenely. "She's gonna be a night owl," she said, nodding at the baby. She caressed her daughter's cheek with a fingertip. "Not three month's old, and already my little girl loves the night life."

Brennan came over to stand beside them. There was a white half-moon out, shining down on a blue-black sea. Angela's hair shone, her body catching in shadows of light and dark.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.

Brennan shook her head. "I know I should," she said, preempting the speech she expected would not be long in coming. Angela merely smiled, however – a sad smile, with no crinkling around the eyes.

"I think I'll leave the lectures to Jack for a couple days." She fell silent. Brennan expected there was something more she wanted to say, and wondered briefly if Booth would know what it was. Booth could do that: read people, anticipate what came next. Brennan could not. People were constantly surprising her. As an anthropologist, she imagined that that should not be the case.

Angela looked at her – a quick sideways glance, before her eyes returned to the ocean. A bird cried out shrilly, the sole voice in an otherwise still night.

"I've missed him, you know," Angela said quietly.

Brennan looked at her curiously. When she realized who the artist was speaking of, she turned away. Leveled her gaze at the white sand stretched at their feet. Her hair was up, off her shoulders, and a light breeze stirred the tendrils that had fallen loose at her neck.

"Booth?" she asked, after a moment.

Angela sniffled. She had to shift the baby – no longer suckling but still fully awake – to wipe her eyes.

"All year, I've been thinking about you guys," she said. "I've gotta be honest: I haven't missed the work. It's been nice, actually… Painting stuff that's not ripped apart by violence. To be able to look at a face in the crowd and not have to imagine them in pieces. But God… I missed you guys so much."

"What would you think about, when you thought of Booth?" Brennan asked. She turned around, her head tilted slightly as she studied Angela. She considered the question.

"I don't know – Booth things, you know? Like, when we were in Paris and we got this totally shitty, stereotypical French waiter, all I could think about was how much Booth would hate him. Or we went to this place in Madrid and had the most incredible gelato on the planet, and I could just hear Booth's voice in my head."

Brennan smiled at this, lowering her eyes. She thought of the night at her place years ago, and all the nights afterward, cooking macaroni and cheese for him. How appreciative he always was.

"When I was pregnant and feeling fat and pissed off and achy, I'd always think about you and Booth."

Brennan looked at her friend at this, perplexed. "Why?"

Angela took a breath, and released it slowly. She shrugged her shoulders. Brennan was standing close enough that she could see Charlotte's blue eyes, wide open and staring up at Angela.

"I don't know, I'd just get this picture in my head – of you and Booth. And you're gorgeously huge with his baby, and I'd think about how amazing you'll be. You know – together. How perfect you'll be, once you have it all figured out."

Tears sprang to Brennan's eyes. She looked away, trying to push them back down.

"He's gonna be okay, Bren," Angela said. Her voice was firm, completely devoid of doubt.

Brennan shook her head. A tear spilled down her cheek. "I hate this. I hate just… Waiting here. Statistically, hostages held more than – "

"I'm not talking about statistics," Angela said. "This isn't how your story ends, Brennan. The two of you? You're gonna get a chance at something better than this, sweetie. God's not that cruel."

Brennan didn't believe in God. If she did, however, Brennan would point out to Angela that God was actually exactly that cruel – and even more so. Lovers were torn apart everyday, children were tortured and killed, whole races were mutilated. Storms destroyed villages, volcanoes buried infants.

Booth could die, and she was powerless to stop it.

"I'm not waiting anymore," she said suddenly. A feeling of power filled her – not of hope, perhaps, but at least of decision. "I have to do something. I have to… go there." She realized that she wasn't even certain where there was. Afghanistan? She'd been there before; it wasn't that she was afraid.

Or perhaps she was.

"Brennan, we've talked about this – how many of those big-wig Army guys have you talked to at this point? All of them. And Jack's talked to every crazy conspiracy guy with the tiniest connection to the Middle East. They all say the same thing, sweetie."

She set her jaw stubbornly, shaking her head. "I can't just stay here and wait. He's out there somewhere – do you have any idea what they do to American prisoners?" She swiped at a tear uselessly. "If it were me…" she trailed off. Crossed her arms over her chest tightly, guarding against the chill of night, and stared out at the horizon.

It was dawn when Brennan closed her eyes that day. Before allowing herself to sleep, she had resolved to return to the comm. tent that day – the moment Mombatu was awake. She would place whatever calls needed to be placed, and she would leave this place. There was no way she would spend another night here, until she knew she'd done everything possible to bring Booth back safely.

When she slept that day, Brennan dreamed of sand. She dreamed of blackened bodies, and a fire on the horizon. Her mother was seated in the lotus position, smiling at her, and Brennan was just a child, playing with a pile of charred bones. She knew that she was supposed to be doing something with the bones, that they should tell a story, but they were a jumble of parts that made no sense to her.

She didn't know what to do.

"Temperance." Mombatu appeared. The desert receded. She ached for a picture of Booth, yearned for his smile with as much physical need as one would feel when deprived of food or water.

"Temperance." Mombatu shook her. Her eyes flew open.

She sat bolt upright, still in the clothes she'd worn the day before. "Something happened?" she said. The reality of the situation had been restored in less than a second.

Mombatu nodded. She couldn't read his face. "There is a phone call."

"Is he…?"

The anthropologist shook his head, his dark eyes kind but inscrutable. "He is alive. Come – let's get you to the telephone."

As she ran, aware of Mombatu's presence behind her, she recalled that first flight through the jungle a few months ago – racing to the tent to hear his voice, only to turn around and find him there. Mombatu had said he was not dead.

He's not dead, she told herself. There was still fear, uncertainty, but… he was alive. There was a phone call.

She pushed herself harder.

She took the satellite phone from Eli without exchanging a word, gasping for breath as she forced words.

"This is Dr. Brennan."

"Hey, baby."

Her knees crumpled beneath her. She sat down on the ground, paying no attention as Eli attempted to help her before Mombatu shooed him away. The men left the tent.

"Booth?" Tears began in earnest.

"Yeah, Bones – in the flesh. You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easy, did you?"

She wiped at her tears, but more fell in their place. "You're all right? They didn't… How did you…?"

"Nah, I'm fine – fit as a fiddle, Bones." He groaned. "Geez – watch it, huh?" he said, presumably to someone on the other end of the line. "Okay, maybe a kind of banged up fiddle."

"Is there a doctor there?"

"Yeah – three of 'em, at the moment. But don't worry, I'm – "

"I'd like to speak with one."

There was a pause on the line. "Bones, I'm okay. You don't need to – "

"Booth, please. I'd like to speak with the doctor."

He sighed. "Yeah, okay. Nice to hear your voice too, Bones."

A moment later, a woman's voice came on the line.

"This is Dr. Adams."

"How is he?" She didn't bother with niceties, brushing at tears that were still leaking down her cheeks.

"You're Dr. Brennan then?" The woman had a pleasant voice and a British accent, though these things barely registered with Brennan. "He said not to spare you because you'd know, so… There are some bruises, and a couple of broken bones. He was in surgery last night, but he wouldn't take more pain medication until he spoke with you."

"Surgery?"

"He had an open fracture of the left tibia, and naturally hadn't received the best care for that. When he came to us, he was in shock – we will continue to treat him for that, as well as for any bacteria he may have been exposed to before we were able to properly treat the break."

"What about nerve damage or complications? Were you able to repair everything?"

There was a brief pause. When the doctor spoke again, her voice was quieter – as though she were trying to prevent Booth from hearing her. "Another surgery may be required down the line. We were able to stabilize him and address the most pressing concerns at the time."

Keeping him alive, Brennan realized. That was the most pressing concern at the time. A weight settled on her chest at the thought. She took a moment to gather herself before addressing the physician again.

"May I speak with him again?"

"Of course – but not too long, please. As I said, he's refused any morphine until we let him speak with you. He needs to rest."

Brennan agreed, then waited a moment before Dr. Adams returned the phone to Booth.

"See, Bones," he said. He sounded strained – she could detect pain and fatigue, she thought. "I told ya, I'm okay. I might never make it to the Stanley Cup now, but – "

"You stopped taking your pain medication." Her voice sounded tense, even to her.

"Just 'til I could talk to you, Bones – trust me, I'm gonna let them knock me out the second we're off the phone."

"But you're okay?" she persisted. "You're… you're safe."

"I'm okay, baby." His voice softened. "I'm sorry you were worried – I'm okay. It's over."

"Where are you?" she asked. "Wherever you are, I'll be on the next plane. If you're going back home, I'll come with you."

"No, Bones." The response was fast, harder than his previous words. "It's a military hospital," he explained, slowing down. "They don't really like the guys to have visitors here. Later, maybe. Okay?"

She agreed reluctantly, if only because he sounded so vehement and she didn't want to upset him. They spoke for only another minute or so before she could hear Booth fading.

"I should let you sleep. Thank you for calling."

There was another pause no the line. "When I get out of here, Bones, you're the first person I wanna see – please believe that, okay? I just don't really want… Just not for a couple weeks. Just give me a little time."

Her forehead furrowed. "I've seen you in hospitals before, Booth."

"Not like – " he stopped. "It's not the same, okay? Just a couple weeks. You know I love you, right?"

She swallowed. Opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

"Bones?"

She tried again, pushing past her own fears.

"I love you, too."

Silence. Then, a slow laugh that quickly became a moan.

"See, how hard was that?" he asked. "Say it again." A command, that smile behind his voice – the same smile that had changed everything for her, from the very start.

"I love you." It was easier the second time.

"One more time?"

"Booth," she laughed.

"Come on, Bones – I've been beaten, I've been blindfolded, my leg got turned inside out, I – " he stopped suddenly. There was silence for what felt like a very long time.

"Booth?"

She heard him take a shaky breath. "Sorry, Bones. I just, uh… I should go." His voice had sobered considerably.

"Will you take your pain medication?"

"Yeah – they're dosing me now. I'll talk to you soon. I love you, Bones." He got quieter. "I really do. I don't know what I did to get somebody like you in my life, baby, but I'm pretty damned glad I did it."

"I love you too, Seeley."

She set down the phone and closed her eyes, still sitting on the ground.

He was okay.

The doubts she'd had, the fears, the insecurities and petty differences and six years of holding him at arm's length suddenly seemed laughable. Absurd. Booth was all right. He'd survived. Mombatu came to the doorway of the tent and peered in, looking at her uncertainly.

"He is...?"

"He's fine. Or - not fine. I'm not certain the extent of his injuries, but it sounds as though everything will heal in time. No permanent damage." She stood and brushed the tears from her face. "Mombatu, I know I made an agreement to remain here until May..."

He shook his head. "I will make arrangements. Whenever you need to go."

Booth's words returned to her. She hesitated. "Not yet. But soon. Booth will be going home... I'd rather he didn't go alone."

Mombatu smiled at her, his eyes warm. She wondered briefly if he was thinking of how differently this scenario had ended for him; of those he had lost.

"I agree. Go home. Be together. The bones can wait."

How many times had Angela told her that very same thing? For the first time in her life, Brennan believed she understood that. Right now, the dead were not her priority. Right now, flesh and blood and beating hearts held a great deal of appeal.

She would go home.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

"It's been an honor serving under you, Master Sergeant." The soldier stood at attention. He looked like such a kid – barely shaving, standing there in fatigues and a sunburn, head shaved so the hair reminded Booth of down on a baby duck.

"At ease, Reynolds. I'm not your commander anymore – I'm just another guy on his way home."

"And you're sure you don't want to catch a transport with us? This isn't exactly standard procedure, sir."

Booth looked around the crowded airport. His head was starting to ache, and he didn't like how close everybody was. Still, he shook his head.

"Nothing about this past year's been standard procedure, Lieutenant." He ran a hand through his too-short hair. "I just wanna be normal again. Get back to my life."

Whatever the hell that meant. He waited until Reynolds left before he hefted his pack over his shoulder again; he didn't want the kid to see him wince at the move. He looked around again. That morning, he'd left the Landstuhl Medical Center against the doctor's orders, eight days after his guys had come in and pulled him out of the hellhole he was being kept in, about fifty miles outside Kandahar. The details of the rescue op were fuzzy – some of it didn't make sense, the way he remembered it. Some of it, he didn't remember at all.

Some of it, he knew he'd never forget.

Booth was wearing jeans and a T-shirt; trying to blend in. He wanted to get lost in everyone else's lives for a while, but it felt like he was wearing a flashing neon sign. "Soldier headed home."

That word again: Home. He thought of Bones… She was freaked out, he knew. Freaked out that he'd been taken; freaked out that now that he was back, he wasn't more anxious to see her. The fact was, he was dying to see her again. He just didn't know… He wasn't ready yet. Once he felt a little stronger, once he didn't flinch at every loud noise or wake up screaming every time he closed his eyes… Yeah, then he'd be ready. Time. He just needed a little time.

His leg was starting to throb, so Booth got himself in gear. Made sure his pack was solid over his shoulder, balanced himself on his crutches, and tried to ignore the first lightning bolt of pain that never failed to hit every time he made a move. The nurse had wanted him to use a wheelchair, but there was no way. No way in hell was he leaving his tour and first setting foot back in the U.S. in a wheelchair. They'd also been pushing the drugs like there was no tomorrow, but Booth had seen too many guys go down that road and never come out of it.

So, he clenched his jaw, ignored the pain. Gimped his way through the security check, listening to the foreign languages all around him. People were smiling, laughing. A few enlisted men, but he was in the Frankfurt airport now… Among civilians. Still, he found himself watching people – looking for trouble. A couple of scruffy looking teenagers were making out in the corner, a duffel bag at their feet. An old woman was crying, saying goodbye to two chubby granddaughters with dark hair and big brown eyes. He was back in the world, but he felt like an alien. Seeley Booth, FBI-man. Sniper. Prisoner of war. Master sergeant.

Seeley Booth.

Fuckin' martian.

Once he'd gotten through the checkpoints, he got to the ticket counter and the pretty woman who took his ticket said in a thick accent,

"It will be just a moment, sir. Perhaps you should sit?"

He didn't know what the problem was, but he was pretty sure if it took more than two minutes, he'd do well to take the woman's suggestion. He eased his pack to an empty seat, then stretched his right leg out as he kind of crashed his ass into the cold plastic seat.

A couple of boys Parker's age were fooling around in the middle of the terminal, laughing. Booth thought of what it would be like to be back in Washington. He tried to imagine making small talk with Cam and the squints, tried to picture himself staying cool and easygoing while Sweets grilled him about what happened while he'd been captured.

He tried to imagine seeing Bones again, looking into those blue eyes, and telling her he was okay. The same guy she'd fallen in love with. The muscles in his thigh started to bunch; fifteen seconds, and they'd start to spasm. He clenched his teeth when the pain started. Sweat ran down the back of his neck.

"Sir?"

He looked up maybe three minutes later to see the woman at the counter staring at him.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, too fast. "Did you get everything figured out?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir. Your seat has been switched, however – we were made aware of your rank and most recent assignment. It would be our honor if you would take a seat in first class."

Well, he sure as hell wasn't going to fight them on that. Reynolds had probably told them.

He started to get up, and winced. The ticket lady offered her hand; Booth had this overwhelming urge to slap it away.

"I've got it," he said. Harder than he meant to – she stepped back, looking like he was somebody to be pitied.

Booth's jaw hardened. He steeled himself so his face wouldn't show a fucking thing when the pain hit, and limped past her to the plane without looking at her again.

Things got better once Booth sat down in the giant, first-class seat that was waiting for him. If Reynolds had been the one who did this, he was gonna have to send the kid something – it turned out Booth hadn't quite thought through trying to cram his cast into a regular seat for the long trip stateside. The flight attendant brought him a pillow and a blanket, some nuts and a drink – beer, even though he knew getting up to piss would be a pain in the ass. But the beer was cold, and German, and he'd already killed the bottle and was leaning back with his eyes closed by the time the passenger sitting next to him showed up, just a couple of minutes before takeoff.

He felt the seat shift, and he knew it was her before she said a word. Before he'd opened his eyes. It was her smell… Which might sound a little weird, kind of primal, but Booth had spent six years with her in pretty much every situation known to man. Once you've done that, you get to know a woman's scent.

She sat down, big blue eyes on his. A minute passed, maybe more.

"I know you said I shouldn't come."

He thought of the things they'd been through over the years. How many orders had he given her that she'd ignored in that time? Had he really thought this would be any different?

In the Medevac 'copter leaving Afghanistan, Booth had hallucinated that she was with him. One night, hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, electrodes in his chest and his eye bloodied shut, he could've sworn she was with him when roaches were swarming at his feet and another prisoner's screams kept him awake for what felt like hours. She hadn't said anything, but he'd imagined her head on his chest, arms wrapped around his waist.

Bones took his hand. He felt tears come, and swallowed them back. Pressed her hand to his lips, still dry and cracked.

"I'm glad you did, Bones."

She brushed his hair from his forehead. Studied his face in that way she did, her eyes bright with tears of her own. Her fingertips were light, careful, as she catalogued his cuts and bruises. They didn't talk for a while. It occurred to him that she would know – without him having to say a word, Bones would know what happened to him. His body would tell the story, and the words wouldn't even have to leave his mouth.

"Are you okay?" she whispered to him as the plane began taxiing down the runway. She moved closer, until her forehead was almost resting against his, her hand at the nape of his neck.

He nodded. "I am now," he whispered back. She wrapped her arms around him. Kissed him, soft at first and then harder when his fingers twined in her hair. "We're going home, Bones."

They parted, just a little – just enough so he could see her eyes, the light of her smile. As the plane left the ground and gained altitude, he had that moment of weightlessness that he always felt when he was flying. He draped his arm around Bones's shoulders and pulled her closer. Closed his eyes.

They were going home.

_Fin_


End file.
